The Veins of the Virgin
by conchepcion
Summary: Arthur Hooper dies leaving his sixteen year old daughter a journal. In that journal her father talks of a world filled with evil things in the dark, and one that shakes every ounce of logic in her (AU).
1. 1989 Pt 1

**A/N: **Thank you _AussieMaelstrom _for having an overwhelming amount of patience to my silliness! This is quite different from anything I've ever written here.

It is an AU that I had the idea of during the weekend all of a sudden.

I blame several of the amazing sherlolly-writers for having inspired me, as I've been wanting to do something of this kind for a while. I have no idea if this is something people would read however, but do read on. Luckily I will turn my eyes towards my other work for now, as to distract me.

* * *

_The fabric of your flesh, pure as a wedding dress_

_Until I wrap myself inside your arms I cannot rest_

_The saints can't help me now the ropes have been unbound_

_I hunt for you with bloodied feet across the hallow'd ground_

**1989**

Her brown hair flew into her face, strands tangling themselves together, while her auburn eyes narrowed to read the tiny slip held between her fingertips with the address she knew by heart now. She caught sight of the wooden sign attached to one of the barren trees, _Holmes house_, it said. Molly pocketed the paper, tugging on the straps of her rug-sack, as she wandered the muddy path spread with yellowed leaves in her school uniform. She knew by the grey clouds overhead that it would rain, and hurriedly buttoned her coat before she started to run past the gloomy trees that loomed over her.

The wind pulled at her clothes, a deep voice whispering her forward, almost causing her to stumble in her sprint. It was a voice beckoning her to hurry, as the rain started to fall in great torrents. By the time she reached the black gate leaving the forest behind her, she was drenched to the bone, her cold trembling hands soon clutching the steel gate adorned with black roses. It had to be there of course, for she could hear the voice carry over the wind belonging to a man in pain.

_Six months earlier –_

The monitor beeped in the background, signalling his heartbeat, the rhythm a slow hum that she couldn't ignore even how hard she tried. He was being kept alive; this was his last moments with her, and there were stains of tears already shed upon her rosy cheeks. Her father's hand was large, the veins glaring through his pale skin. He was using the last of his strength to squeeze her hand in comfort. There was no comfort to be found in the hospital room, even how much his soft brown eyes sought her face out, and she tried not to cry. She didn't want to cry in front of him, not as life seemed to be draining him, bit by bit, and she couldn't do anything. In this room she was useless, this wasn't a trifle cold, no, it was death taking him.

None of the doctors were familiar with the infection that had struck him, constantly making him new concoctions in hopes that he would stop coughing blood, but in the end they knew there was nothing to be done. He tried speaking, stroking his thumb over her hand, "It's ok, dad – you don't – you don't need to talk, ok," she said in a small voice, while he drew a ragged breath.

"It's important," he wheezed, his expression stoic, "Very important."

"It can wait - I'm here, dad," she lied, trying to smile, but it was a strain on her mouth. They'd lost her mother years ago, now he would be following her. Molly had hoped that when that time came she'd be older, that she'd be better prepared, that she'd finally accept that people perished, but she wasn't at all ready. He was everything she had left, and he was spending his last days making no sense. He wasn't cracking jokes, there was no smile playing at his lips, all that was left of him was this failing body - Arthur Hooper was dying.

"You have to promise-," he said clearing his throat, though his voice remained gravelly, " – you have to see – him – he will help – you'll be safe then."

"Dad, I'm fine – we're in a hospital," she said, though he looked aggravated by her answer, and she humoured him, "Who dad?"

"I can't teach you, there's not enough time," he said blinking furiously at her, and she rather hoped he was sane.

Her aunt wasn't supporting that theory at all, though she was barely present, spending most of her time chatting up the staff, and having fags, then spending it with her brother in law. Molly supposed that her aunt might be right, even if she didn't wish to agree with her at all, despite the fact that her dad was speaking of a soulless man and other things that made the nurses shush him before increasing his morphine. None of which did him any good, for he didn't complain of any pain. She wanted him lucid, wanted to see his eyes open, and present, even if he wasn't making much sense, it was something to cling to, "Teach me what?" she said hoping he had enough strength to keep talking.

"The ways of our family," he said with a brief smile.

She almost felt like laughing, "I know how to make your special pancakes," she said, but the laughter clung to her throat, not willing to be let out, as she bit back the tears. She wanted to shout at him, to shake him – for having not told her he was sick, and for trying to avoid going to the hospital before it was too late.

He jerked his head slightly, "He will help," he said hoarsely. He repeated that sentence many times, not that it made any sense, and he didn't seem inclined to explain who _he_ was.

She was just glad he was still talking; however he quieted down after a while, but she never left his side. When she woke up, the hand she held in her palm was cold, and the machine was still working to keep him alive, but he was already gone.

_- Six months later -_

In her father's will, she was the sole heir, of course most of the money remaining - how little it was – got handed over to her aunt Lucy who was her guardian from now on. Molly knew by the look of pleasure appearing on her aunt's face that none of that money would be seen when she turned eighteen, as Lucy would most likely claim, "It costs to have a sixteen year old living with you," and of course her aunt suddenly had new things that Molly knew she couldn't afford with the wages she had.

It was disheartening to know that the time she spent working hard at school was being wasted, for she would most likely never have a shot at uni anyway. She still kept on reading, doing her best, and hoping that it would be fine in the end.

Her aunt wasn't exactly keeping her spirits up with muttering, "Arthur was a bit of a nutter," repeatedly, "Your mum was mental for having married him." Molly suspected it had to do with the various things her father left her, of course there were photo-albums, small trinkets, and even some jewellery her mum had owned, that her aunt took for _safe-keeping, _but the most curious item was a leather-bound journal.

Inside the journal there was handwriting, some of which by her mother's hand, and some by her dad – pages littered with text – and some with drawings. There was a foreword addressed to her – _To Molly for when she will need it. _Molly didn't know why she would need a book that was clearly about vampires, which threw her off immediately, and made her wonder if her father had wanted to be a writer, since he'd never mentioned the book while she grew up.

It unnerved her that there were constant mentions of a _soulless man_, the same thing her dad had repeatedly warned about to all around her in the hospital, and now he apparently thought of it while he was by all means sane. Amidst the pages however there was a piece of paper, used like a bookmark, where an address was stood – above it the words; _for help._

She didn't know why she would need help, neither did she seek it either, but she had looked up the address. It was outside of London, some miles off, but she didn't feel like going there. Molly felt tempted to ring up the number and ask if they knew of her father's apparent _fantasies, _but she thought better of it, focusing her energy in her school instead. For maybe her aunt was quite right about her dad being weird, but she didn't throw the journal away, instead keeping it on her nightstand occasionally scouring through the pages for a read. There were vampires, werewolves, monsters, and unimaginable sorts in the pages; things that made the hairs on her neck stand up, but she laughed it away. After all, there was no such thing as monsters in the dark.

After her father's death she'd gotten used to living with her aunt, adhering to her schedule, there were no strict rules, but she knew she had to fend for herself most of the time. Her aunt Lucy didn't feel terribly inclined to guard her, "After all you're sixteen, you'll be alright," she said, like she always did, right before she'd leave for hours – not returning until the crack of dawn, and then she'd spend it in bed watching bad television until she fell asleep with a unlit cigarette dangling in her mouth. Molly was certain if she wasn't around that the woman would end up being burned up in her bed, for often she'd find a cigarette still burning in her mouth, and she'd dispose of it, before the worst would happen, "You know how to handle yourself, right?" said her aunt, more to herself than to Molly.

She looked up from the book in her lap, taking in the sight of aunt in a new pink dress, "Right?" her aunt said with a slight nod towards her.

"Yeah," said Molly directing her eyes back to her maths book with a sigh. Her aunt didn't say goodbye, before disappearing off to God knows where, and Molly didn't feel at a loss with her leaving. There wasn't exactly much love between the pair of them, for her aunt hadn't been anything but particularly annoyed to be _saddled _with her upon her father's death. She however didn't seem irritated at being rewarded with some money from her father, not that she used any of it on Molly (causing her to pilfer pounds from her for food).

Molly sighed, settling the book on the table, before she started working at the equation at hand, but she was surprised to hear the doorbell unexpectedly go off.

She looked up in wonder realising just how very dark it was, taking to stand up in pure reflex only to remember that her aunt never rang on the doorbell, and the door was generally left shut, but never locked. Molly walked to the door intending to open it, but the doorbell went off a second time causing her to jump slightly. She almost laughed at her own silliness, though anxiety started to settle in her, but it could be someone from school – however she never had anyone visit – "Molly," said a voice causing her skin to crawl.

Her hand that had been hovering over the doorknob pulled back immediately at that voice, her eyes staring fearfully at the wooden door, for it was said softly, ever so nicely, and only caused the hairs to stand up on back of her neck, as it was the voice of _her father_.

"Molly, I know you're there – doing your school work like a good little girl, aren't you just?" continued the voice, holding in the doorbell now - letting the shrill sound ring through the house, as she slowly back away from the door in shock.

It was her dad – or was it?

Her dad had died, she'd been there, she'd seen him turn cold, she'd seen them try to get him back, and none of it worked, but she could hear his voice, "MOLLY!" the voice yelled, though whoever it was – was using his fist to hammer on the door now.

She went towards the window besides the door drawing the curtains to the side, but she couldn't see anything from that angle. Molly walked back to the door biting her lip, it was obviously someone taking the mickey out of her – one of the boys at school, "Wrong – wrong house," she said finally daring to speak.

"You sure, Molly? I don't think _so_," said the voice, pressing the doorbell another time, "You know it's rude to let someone wait," he said, when he'd stopped another round of ringing.

"Who are you?"

"Daddy's home," said the voice in a loud whisper.

"I'll call – I'll call the police," she cried out hoping that whoever it was would disappear – she had to be imagining it was her dad's voice – but she knew it was. She would recognise that voice anywhere, which was why her hand was clutched around the phone now.

"Oh – _do _– I love me some police," said the voice, and she settled the phone on the receiver, "Or you could be a good girl, and invite me in?"

_Invite me in? Why did that sound familiar to her?_

"What do you want?"

"_You _– you'd be a nice little play-thing, don't you think? We'd have loads of fun," said the voice, mimicking the familiar laugh of her fathers, but it didn't bring warmth to her heart.

Her father never laughed like that, he would never, it was cold and with not an ounce of humanity in it – it didn't at all seem real – he was dead. She had to be dreaming, she couldn't be – _the laughter stopped_ – there was no sound beyond the door, just her low breath from the inside.

She reached for the doorknob, but she thought better of it. Whoever it was, they had to have gone off, probably too bored to bother her anymore – it was maybe some mad person getting their rocks off – though it didn't sit right with her at all.

She turned on most of the lights in the house, slowly going through the rooms, trying to keep herself calm as she checked if anyone was in the house, but she was alone. In the end she went to the window in the kitchen that had a better view of the front door, but there was no one there.

When Molly finally tucked herself under her duvet that night (not without stacking one of her smaller closets in front of her bedroom door) she was rifling through the pages of the journal, letting her eyes fall upon a sentence that she thought of when he'd asked – _A vampire can only enter if you invite them in. Do not invite those without souls._

* * *

She didn't fall asleep until daylight started to creep into her bedroom, and she woke up as she always did to the sound of her aunt locking herself in. Molly hastily got dressed, eyeing the journal on her nightstand, while packing her rug-sack, and knew that despite putting on her school-uniform she'd be skiving off for the first time in her life. She packed her lunch as always, not mentioning anything of last night's _guest _to her aunt, though briefly hoping it was one of her aunts friends, however she knew most of them, and none of them were that – special. Needless to say she did feel like she was overreacting, though she still wanted to understand if her dad was in fact making sense, and if the note stuck in the pages for _help_ was actually important. She didn't know if it was, but she didn't want someone like that in front of her door again, whether or not it had anything to do with her dad.

From all she knew her dad dealt with all kinds of people, but it didn't seem like him at all. She could still feel in her gut that the person would return, they would return for _her_, for whatever they needed her for, and she knew she had to go wherever that note led her.

It felt right somehow, as if she was always going to go there – like she knew of it already. Her aunt was asleep in front of the telly when she finally left for _school_ saying she'd be home around three o'clock, though she didn't know when she'd be back, but she was sure aunt Lucy didn't give three straws about that – more the fact that she was missing twenty pounds now.

Molly walked out, trying to shake off the idea of vampires – of a soulless man, as best she could, for if it was a _vampire_ – he wasn't out in broad daylight, at least. It didn't comfort her a lot, that idea did, but at least it was something. She almost went to school at that, wondering if her imagination had properly gone against her, but she went to the over-ground train station, changing several trains, until she got a bus to her final stop. Molly was good with finding places really, had a knack for this sort of thing, but the houses in the area were spread apart, and none of them had any marked addresses. In the end she asked around, most people shook their heads reproachfully at her, until she came upon an old man, "Oh, yeah, right – that house – well – you just follow the path through the woods," he said jerking his head to the great overgrown forest, " there's signs, so you won't get lost, just don't stray from the path, and about ten minutes you'll find a massive gate – you can't miss it – it's the Holmes' estate that is."

Molly nodded at that, "Thanks," she said relieved.

The man stopped her for a second looking thoughtful, "What you going up there for?"

"Oh, I'm just visiting –_ family_," she said.

He suddenly looked bewildered, soon giving her a grin under his moustache, "Well, that's good, I thought you were one of those kids who'd be trying to get in – they say it's haunted, rubbish really, everyone says that about a great old house."

"Haunted?" she said in an squeakier voice than intended.

"It's just a house, really. Not to worry, Molly," he said smiling down at her, taking his sixpence off his head to wipe his forehead.

She blinked, "Sorry – how do you-," she started, but he never let her finish waving her off until he walked the opposite direction. Molly stared after the man's back warily, " – know my name?" she muttered to herself.

Things were taking a strange turn, from people not wanting to give her any answers to one man knowing her name, and she felt a chill creep over her. It was the cold however, that's what she repeated to herself –_ must have forgotten I said my name to him _– though she didn't know his name.

_Holmes _– that was a name she'd never heard before, though it felt strikingly familiar, but maybe her father had mentioned it once in passing. He knew loads of people, though he'd gotten less social after her mum died spending most of his time with her. She never quite knew how they coped, for he stayed mostly at home, as he used to travel a lot for his old job in an insurance company. In the end, despite her caution she strode through the forest hoping there was a logical explanation to it all, perhaps one served over a cup of tea, and one that would take less than an hour, so she could get back to aunt Lucy's sleeping form. Yet…she knew by the second she stepped into the forest threading upon the muddy path… _"Molly," _said a voice rattling through the wind like a whisper – that there would be no logical explanation within reason.

Her hands were on the gate that of course didn't open to her, she peered through the cracks seeing a large mansion in the distance, gaping in surprise, but soon flinging herself off the gate at loud – _buzz_ – "Excuse me – but what are you doing?" said a woman's voice.

She tried to find the speaker, wherever it was hidden from her prying eyes, "Hi – err - is – is this the Holmes house?" she said uncertainly.

"Yes?" said the woman sounding rather impatient.

"Err – I'm sorry – I'm Molly Hooper – my-," but the woman hadn't let her finish as another_ buzz_ was heard – the gate swung open mechanically, " – thank you," said Molly, still looking for the camera.

She wasn't used to that sort of thing at all, it was a bit too posh for her, and she felt rather daft with her school uniform and rug-sack, though clearly they had to be expecting her. Wandering through the gate that slowly closed behind her, blanching slightly as she carried on forwards, the place itself didn't seem scary. It was a great white mansion, with well-kept grounds that would probably be blossoming if it weren't autumn. She walked on the pearly white gravel slightly bemused, wondering how her dad knew of these people, and why on earth this was where she'd get help – from what she didn't know. Molly just knew that the voice she heard, whatever it was, perhaps just the wind – it didn't scare her, rather the opposite, which was unsettling.

She wasn't supposed to hear voices, she'd never heard voices before, and now she'd heard two opposing ones. One in the wild, and one outside her doors, which wasn't exactly normal, but she suspected that her family had never been. She wished she had her dad so she could ask him for advice, or at least have him explain everything, but she instead met an old woman in a deep purple dress with a friendly smile, "Hello – dear – I'm Mrs Hudson," she said meeting her on the path with an umbrella over her head, that she moved over Molly as well.

Molly grinned feeling slightly at ease, since the woman didn't seem as intimidating in front of the house at least, for she recognised her voice from the buzzer, "Hi – sorry – I didn't know how to get in," she said pointing towards the gate.

She waved a hand at her, "It's fine, we're just used to people getting lost that's all – it's an often walked path," the woman said, as they both started walking to the house together.

Molly didn't exactly see anyone else walking, or anywhere near the forest, though she didn't argue, "You gave me a bit of a fright though – I was in the middle of my tea," said Mrs Hudson with a laugh.

"So…you've got camera's?" she said turning her head towards the gate, as they finally reached the white stone steps to the house.

"Oh, yes – he does love putting them gadgets up. Ruining all my begonias while at it too – Mycroft does, but I suspect you know all about him, then?" said Mrs Hudson, as they stood before the door.

Molly frowned, "No – not exactly, you see I found this note-," she brought up the piece of paper, " – it said for help in my dad's journal."

Mrs Hudson took the affronted piece of paper staring at it wide-eyed, her eyes soon turning towards Molly, "Oh dear," she said looking worried.

* * *

Mrs Hudson apologised that they didn't have anything in her size to change from her wet uniform, though Molly didn't complain, as she got handed a blanket, a cup of tea, and then a plate of freshly baked biscuits, "We never get visitors," she said seeming well-pleased, "Their my own recipe, chocolate of course, it's good to see someone enjoying them for once," she said eyeing Molly who ate a couple in rapid succession only then realising how much her journey had taken out of her.

Mrs Hudson informed her that it was her who took care of the house, "Though _not_ as an housekeeper, mind you, I rule over the staff of course," but Molly hadn't spotted anyone wandering around either, "We haven't got many of them though – most of the rooms have been boarded up."

"Oh right," said Molly sitting cross-legged in the flowery-patterned chair that creaked every time she moved too abruptly.

Mrs Hudson hadn't answered any of her questions regarding her father, so she stopped asking allowing the woman to show her around the house. It was a great big house, seemingly even bigger on the inside, with its high ceilings and opaque walls adorned with art dating back to the 1700s from the look of it, and some more modern pieces. She was of course shown to the less than friendly-looking study that was rather dark compared to the others, the curtains pulled, and the only source of light being a weak-lit chandelier that hung low in the ceiling. She was still impressed where she was sat, "He's not a big fan of colours, I like to keep it a bit light, makes one feel less dreary, don't you think?" Molly agreed, though she could see the small influences that Mrs Hudson had in the room, and she was sitting on it.

After a while the woman left her on her own, "Mycroft will be out soon to see you – I'll try to find you something to wear for tonight." Before Molly could ask about her obviously staying over the woman wandered off whispering to herself, and the door to the study was smacked shut. Her appetite was immediately ruined, making her drop the remaining biscuit in her hand on the platter and setting it on the tall table besides her.

There was a great many trinkets in the room, from an old globe – to a large world-map on one wall. Behind a great mahogany desk there was a bookcase that reached the ceiling. The books seemed often in use, though most of them in foreign languages, and very few in English that she could see, but she took note of the obvious first editions. She couldn't help taking a peek at them all, though she felt out of place with her uniform skirt riding up every so often.

Her legs had grown, and her skirt definitely hadn't, she couldn't exactly do anything about it either – but was glad that she'd dried up. She rather Mr Holmes _not_ see her with a see-through white shirt. When she stood on her toes to pull out a copy of Jules Verne's _Twenty Thousand Leagues under the sea_, a man cleared his throat immediately causing her to yelp and almost stagger backwards like a fool, letting the book collide onto the floor with a clatter.

Molly stood flushing a deep red at the sight of a man in the doorway wearing a tailored light-grey suit, "You – must be Molly," he said with a raised brow coming to her aid and picking the offending book that he sat back in the bookcase.

"I am Mycroft Holmes," he said giving a brief smile holding out his hand, his palm was cool when she touched it, "Pleasure." He released her hand after a careful shake, seating himself behind the desk gesturing for her to sit.

He was of course a business man, making her wonder if he too was involved in insurance, though he looked too-well off for that, as they didn't exactly live like this when she grew up. She settled in the wooden chair in front of the desk, and felt herself grow nervous for he was rather imposing man.

Mr Holmes was staring at her with his mouth pursed, his hands folded on top of each other on the desk. "Now – Miss Hooper – how may I help you?" he said after a minute of her awkwardly shifting in her seat, unsure where to start.

She didn't know what to say to him, or if he'd believe her, and of the voice, or_ voices_ she'd heard, "Err – you see – Mr Holmes – my dad – he-," she gave a bit of a breathy laugh at that, "It's just, sorry – he said I could come here for help. I should – I should go," she said feeling stupid.

"Your father was a good man, it is a shame that he is lost to this world," he said causing her to still.

Mr Holmes sighed his eyes turning towards the curtains, looking contemplative, before they swept over her, "You have been living with your aunt – that of course explains the length of your skirt. She hasn't been taking care of you properly, I suspect, from the way you haven't removed those crumbs – undernourished, but still growing – _in length_ of course."

Molly sat down at that gaping, promptly shutting her mouth, "I have, but how-," she said pulling at her skirt.

"You are a growing girl, Miss Hooper. It is noticeable that your uniform is one size too small for you, though I do not mention this in any suspicious manner – it is merely an observation – I know very little of your aunt, only in passing."

"How did you know my dad?"

He smiled at that, "We worked together, on certain projects that were beneficial for us both, of course – it is all a bit intricate, but it still begs the question as to why you are here," he said looking at her pointedly.

She looked at him sheepishly, "For help?" she said.

Mr Holmes seemed amused, snorting briefly, "And what is it you need help with, exactly? I am not one for charity cases, Miss Hooper, and if that is the occasion as to why I am bestowed with your presence I am not the one you should be asking."

"I'm not here for money – he left me a journal."

"A journal?" said Mr Holmes with a peculiar expression, "I find there is no point in investigating old clues in your father's journal – none of it will bring him back."

She grimaced at him frustrated by the man's assumptions, "I'm sorry, but I am not here for money – or to bring my dad back – even if that were possible," she bit back taking to her feet, "There was someone at my door last night – he wanted me to let him in – and – and – he was speaking with my dad's voice!" She quickly shut her mouth at that, flushed with anger, and worried that he'd be telling her off for being out of her mind any second.

He looked thoughtful however, stroking his chin, as his eyes darted well above her head, "Did he say what his name was?"

Molly slowly sank into the chair, steadying her breath, "No – he – he – never said his name," she said staring at her hands.

Several minutes past, for she could hear the grandfather clock ticking in the hallway – he didn't believe her of course, and she could barely meet his eye, but he finally broke the silence,

"_Molly_ - your father lived the lie that you were safe, and of course with his presence you were, but he wasn't the same man after the loss of your mother. Arthur wanted to believe it would be his last sacrifice, unfortunately it wasn't, and yet again – we are at the beginning of it all once more. He had not wished this upon you, though I saw the signs –," he said raising a brow in exasperation, "- my brother won't like it of course, as there are certainly some old resentments that will be dug up," Mr Holmes stood up from his seat, "Come with me."

She looked up from her seat in surprise, "Where are we going?"

Mr Holmes glanced at her briefly, "A small excursion to one of the less travelled to spots in the house – my brother's of course – bring that letter-knife – _you_ can carry it," he said gesturing towards the desk.

She was still seated looking at the letter-knife on the desk with a horrified expression on her face.

"Do not fear, Molly. I do not intend to kill you, no," he said with a much more pleasanter voice holding the door to the study open to her, while she slowly walked through into the hallway.

He started to walk at a rather rapid pace, passing room upon room; Molly caught glimpses of more art adorning the walls. They walked further and further into the house, walking down several steps, continuing downwards – his brother certainly kept to himself by the look of it –until they'd gotten to, "The final step," he said not sounding out of breath what-so-ever, despite his stocky frame.

She suddenly stopped when she saw a vast portrait on the wall above the steps that abruptly captivated her. The painting was unlike all of the others. It was a portrait of a peculiar looking dark haired man with a pair of stunning blue eyes wearing regimentals – and a bored expression on his face.

Molly almost laughed; it was a curious countenance to see on such an old portrait, most of them always seemed so proud and stoic, "Is – is it a family portrait? Some ancestor of yours?" she asked turning to Mr Holmes who was on his way down the steps.

He turned towards her mid-step, his eyes upon the portrait, "Ah," he said smirking, "I suppose this will be most amusing."

She looked at him confused, but he just beckoned her down the steps towards the room she assumed was his brother's. Molly felt wrong the minute they'd gotten to a bleak, poorly lit hallway, paint chipping off the walls, and her sense of dread suddenly increasing by tenfold, "Err – sorry – but is this -,"

"The basement, yes," he said unaffected still walking ahead of her.

She still had the letter-knife in her hand; though she didn't exactly know how to use it so it would perhaps be of no use if anything were to happen- what exactly she didn't know. His brother was most likely fond of the bleaker aspect of life, though she felt a tingling sensation that she was thinking over it wrong – _"Molly."_

There it was again – the voice – from the woods – "Did – did you – hear that?" she stuttered nervously.

Mr Holmes didn't stop, not even turning round to her, "There are things that your father never intended to tell you," he said. "He had hoped there would be no reason to do so, so did I, but your life will have to be carved in the same path. There is a way, a way to be safe, but you will have to sacrifice yourself-,"

"What?" she said wide-eyed standing stock-still.

Mr Holmes chuckled, "Only a drop of blood, that will be enough I suspect – it will be pure, which should be sufficient," he said walking towards a black door, its paint completely intact unlike some of the others they'd past.

"A drop of blood?"

"Yes indeed – of course – if you do not want to – you can live your days in fear, but this will above all things make you understand everything," he said turning to her bowing his head slightly.

"Every - everything?" she repeated.

"Everything," he said grinning so his teeth were briefly bared. She swore she saw fangs, swore that she saw a flash of red in his eyes, though none of it seemed alarming to her, "_Come girl."_ The voice was pleasant, soothing, the greatest comfort to her soul, still…

Her body felt willing to move forward, however her feet were grounded - it was only a whisper in her head – a voice prodding her forward, and she recognised it, "_Mycroft?"_ she said to Mr Holmes who looked slightly aghast.

"Clearly not, " he said rolling his eyes.

Molly wondered what had come over her, though she didn't feel frightened of Mr Holmes at all, "I presume it does run in the family," he said with a huff opening the black door.

The door creaked, a gust of wind seeping through the hallway rifling through their clothing, causing her to stand closely to his back. He walked through; she ambled slowly after, seeing the layers of thick dust that shifted beneath her shoes, as she peered around the room.

The walls and floors were made of white marble. In the middle of the room there was a large square-length box, like a, "Is that a – a – coffin?" she said walking quickly after Mr Holmes who took long strides in front of her, as the black door slammed shut behind them by the force of the wind.

"It's a tomb."

There weren't any windows in the room, which made her anxious, although by the bored look in Mr Holmes' face she knew it wasn't anything to be frightened of, as she wasn't afraid of him. The reason to the latter she did not know, she only knew she could trust him.

"In a house?" she asked, while he stood in front of it.

"It is perhaps unusual for some – we however have several in this house – some of those doors you passed, of course, but most of them are empty – people do move on. My dear brother – he was – he was quite unusual already for his time," he said with a slight shake of his head.

He was talking of his brother in past tense, "Mr Holmes – are you a vam – a vamp," she couldn't even finish the sentence.

"Do call me Mycroft," he said not answering her question, though laughing as he started to push the top-half off the marble-casket.

She was ridiculously calm, only her palms were sweating, causing the letter-knife to almost slip out of her grasp. Molly walked to stand besides Mr Holmes worriedly looking up at him, while the top-half fell to the floor with a loud bang, "This is my brother."

She didn't know what to expect really; the stench that was let out was unbelievable, almost making her retch on the spot, though she was only swaying slightly on her feet.

It was a body or the remnants of it – it smelled of rot with its greenish colour, consisting mostly of brittle bones – there was not much man left in this brother of Mr Holmes, "Err – Mycroft – he seems a bit – dead?"

She felt foolish, overstating the glaringly obvious, and not being anything but fascinated. It couldn't exactly do anything to her, unlike Mr Holmes himself.

"Yes, quite," he said with a sigh, "However – I suggest you give me the letter-knife."

Molly swallowed, "Sorry?"

"I did tell you there was to be a sacrifice, didn't I?" he said chastising her.

She stared at him, then the corpse, and then at the letter-knife in her hand – the second she did what he wanted her to do everything would be understood. She knew pieces of the puzzle were in the journal, that even Mr Holmes was a part of that with his unexpected red eyes – and fangs – "Are you a – a – err - though?" she said.

"That remains to be seen," he quipped, "Give it to me, if you please?" She handed it over after a minute of feeling its weight in her hand knowing it would be quicker, though possibly quicker for him to have killed her, but she let that thought pass.

"Hold out your arm – _your left arm_," he said when she held out her right, her brows knitted at that, but she changed her arm.

"Will this hurt?" she asked, when he held her wrist tightly.

"Yes," he said his mouth turning upwards, however he only prodded the knives-edge into her ring finger – a quick jab – that made her yelp slightly, as he kept a firm grip on her.

He didn't release her, though she half-expected something to happen the minute blood came dripping out, but nothing did, "Is that it?" she asked.

"Not entirely," he said softly.

He dragged her along to stand aside the casket, "Hold your finger above his mouth."

"Err -,"

"Just do it, Miss Hooper," he said annoyed.

She took a steadying breath, for he'd let her wrist go, and he his head towards the corpse. Molly licked her dry lips, until she held her ring finger above the corpses mouth – she saw the teeth – the glaringly obvious fangs, but it didn't deter her. Slowly her blood trickled downwards, "Put some pressure on your finger," said Mr Holmes.

Molly did, watching more of it fall down upon the corpse, nothing seemed to be happening, but the corpse jerked in its spot. She gave a scream, quickly taking hold of Mr Holmes besides her who didn't shove her away – staring with mixture of horror and delight at what was happening – the mouth opening – its tongue lapping up her blood - nerves – skin – texture – it was rebuilding itself, "Oh my-," – it looked less green, more pink – muscles - tissue returning – from where – she didn't know – but there it was returning to _– life?_ She held Mr Holmes's arm quite securely afraid she'd faint at the sight.

Then it was…_complete._

The corpse, or rather the man's crystal blue eyes flew open, as he gave a great gasp for breath, though his eyes shut again quickly, and he stilled – looking like he was only asleep.

Molly let go of Mr Holmes's arm staring unabashedly into the marble-casket, gawking at a surprisingly familiar face – the high cheekbones, the dark curled hair, "He looks – he looks just like-,"

"The painting, of course - it is a portrait of him. He is a vampire, Miss Hooper, and you are his master. May I introduce to you – my brother – Sherlock Holmes?"


	2. 1989 Pt 2

**A/N: **As always thanks you _AussieMaelstrom _for beta and general support.

Thank you for the lovely response and general interest for this story, however, I must warn you.

This is not a pretty story, quite the opposite - here are future warnings; graphic depictions of violence, dubious consent, tw: blood, blood kink, etc - if any of those things frighten you - you might want to take a step back, if not - read on. And sorry if anyone confused this with John/Sherlock? Since tagging more than one character ended with FFnet assuming this was Johnlock. I laughed, at least.

* * *

_There's a drumming noise inside my head_

_That starts when you're around_

_I swear that you could hear it_

_It makes such an almighty sound_

_**1989 PT 2**_

She was swaying all of a sudden, her vision slowly becoming unclear, and her hearing weakening. Mycroft stood talking besides her, though she could not hear a word of it only seeing his mouth move, while blinking furiously at the weak light that became like the sun in her eyes, hearing her heart thundering in her chest rising to her throat, while her breathing grew deep and desperate for air. Molly felt angered, overwhelmed – so many thoughts twisted through her head, thoughts that did not belong to her followed with ideas, words, memories – things she'd never seen, nor felt, nor heard of.

"_Master,"_ whispered a voice dripping of derision, one that she could hear clearly in her head, the word echoing in the tomb over the wind that knocked the door open. There was a sudden flash of light – Molly fell to the floor – catching a glimpse of Mrs Hudson carrying a torch with a worried expression. She was certain she heard the older woman tut loudly, "Mycroft!"

* * *

She came to, slowly feeling the warmth of the fire crackling behind her, hearing the voice of two people speaking, gradually realising she wasn't in her bed at her aunt Lucy's. Instead Molly remembered where she was, feeling her stomach churn at the idea that it wasn't all a very peculiar dream.

" – You should just let the poor dear sleep," said the voice of Mrs Hudson.

"She must understand," said Mycroft.

"She can understand after a good night's sleep."

"I will not be here to greet her in the morning, as you are well aware I am needed in London."

"Can't they sort it out themselves?"

"They like to think so, of course, but there is uneasiness in our government – I believe the _iron lady_ will soon have to give up her post."

Mrs Hudson only tutted, "I'll sort out the poor dear's dinner."

"I do not think she will-,"

"She will have to, Mycroft Holmes. I remember what happened last time – after all – and she needs to eat."

"Fine, _Mrs_ Hudson," said Mycroft with a sigh.

A door was smacked shut with a loud thud forcing her to awaken properly. Molly opened her eyes finding herself in the study, they'd sat her in a comfortable chair with a large thick blanket wrapped around her, "Molly," said Mycroft inclining his head to her, as he stood without his dress-jacket, his hands in his pockets, "Awake, then?"

She swallowed shivering slightly, feeling perspiration underneath her clothes, as her teeth chattered, "Y-y-yes," she said trembling, a nervous expression crossing her face, since she hadn't felt ill at all when she'd travelled there.

"Unfortunately what you are feeling now are the ill effects of your connection with my brother," he said wandering over to several crystal bottles that contained red, whether or not it was actually wine she didn't know, but she didn't wish to ask either.

She frowned, while she suddenly felt an indescribable ache in her head, like a stab to her senses, "Connection?" she said.

Mycroft smirked while he let the contents of his glass swirl in his hand, taking a long sip, until he said, "Yes – you and my brother share the same blood."

"What – what – does that mean?" she said barely able to string the words together, suppressing the various emotions that fluttered through her head, ones that she felt were not her own confused thoughts.

"There are ways to reawaken a vampire…of course I was unsure if it would indeed work since you did not display any form of talent until we were in the cellar…"

"Ta – talent?"

"You did not follow my command. Vampires, and _yes_ I am one – Molly – we have control over the weak-minded – the mortals who wander this earth. Any of them would have cowered to my authority, but you are of the same material as your father."

"You mean, when you went funny?"

"That is a remarkable way of putting it yes, but you are quite right – the concept is quite_ funny_."

She blinked, opening her mouth trying to get more words out, but she found herself unable to – Mycroft seemed to be following her thread of thought, "Your father worked tirelessly to banish evil from this world of ours – he was a _hunter_ of my kind, Miss Hooper."

She gaped at him, her hand pressed to her head, as she tried to subdue the pain by rubbing at her temples, "Then – why – why are _you_ alive?"

He smiled taking a seat in a chair besides her, leaning properly back, as he took another nip of his drink, "You have heard of us monsters before - have you not? We have been found in literature throughout the years, us mystical creatures that dwell in the night thirsting for human blood, but there is one fact that they have gotten wrong – we do have souls – we are not the empty evil shells they have made us out to be, neither do we look particularly unsavoury to the common eye."

"A soul? Does that mean you can't kill?"

"Oh, I_ can_ kill if I so wish, but – with that kill, the more innocent the creature I touch, the more I will feel all of their agony, their joy, their entirely life in one unbearable drink, while they turn lifeless in my hands. It is strengthened ten-fold of course, as drinking of a live human is the same as experiencing all the potential they had and didn't have when you end their life."

He paused briefly, "There are of course others, those are the ones your father went after – those without remorse, without soul."

Mycroft must have read her confused expression, for he continued, "When one is bit, whether it be by force or by willingness – depending on how clean your soul is – you will still keep the goodness in your heart, which is why I am cursed with empathy," he laughed slightly, "I feared death above all things, so when I turned ill – I did all in my power not to die, yet there are still ways for us to perish – some of us easier than others. We might be stronger, quicker, and better than ordinary humans, but as you saw with my brother – there are ways to cut down the best of us – and he was without a doubt – the best."

"How did he die?" she asked in a small weak voice.

He ignored her question, "There are more pressing matters at hand, for example your education must be taken into consideration – and no – I am not speaking of school. No, you must learn as your father did. She will be an excellent instructor to you, Mrs Hudson - as she is one of the few who know all of the ways. You have a great deal of power in you, strength that can be compared to ours, of course – which is why you are in danger. Your father should have taught you at an early age, however he thought that due to your mother being ordinary that perhaps there was none in you. I had supposed as much myself – I have been keeping an eye on you, though it seems so have others. You are a danger to them for you are young, there is much potential to be found in you Miss Hooper – time will show if you will excel in your powers, from all we know you will be stronger than your father."

Molly stared into the fireplace, her brown eyes flicking towards Mycroft, "My mum used to work in the hospital – I've – I've seen a lot…but my dad was a _vampire killer_?"

"Didn't you ever wonder where your father went during his travels? He tried to keep his life separate from yours, securing your happiness, but also ensuring your doom. Arthur is most likely dead due to his own carelessness."

"He wasn't careless," she said protesting.

"No, he was a sentimental fool. Your father was a great man, yes, but he was overrun with feelings regarding the loss of your mother. He knew what the risks were involving himself with another, as your mother did. Her work and his were connected in some ways, though her healing the sick was perhaps not exactly the same as seeing a corpse re-animating itself."

Molly didn't argue, too weak to do so wondering just how much her father had lied to her, as it was obvious that his last days had been finally used to tell the truth, even how farfetched it seemed at the time, but another thought cluttered her head, "How am I his _master_?"

"You gave him life - he owes his existence to you now – as I said – you and he are connected, the pain coursing through you now is _his_, but you are only feeling a tenth of it. When he has entirely recovered he will have control enough to make you not feel his thoughts or his pain if he were to have anymore, but even after that – you will still be aware of his feelings and intentions though minor to this. He cannot hide from you, Molly – you can _see _him – as he will see you."

"But – I didn't-,"

"It is for your safety – you do not understand your power quite yet – you are as they say – ripe to be plucked – they are seeking you out, so they can destroy you. You are…humanity's hope – we have been living in a time of peace, but unrest has been brewing. We are at the start of a war, for there are more than vampires out there – all of those creatures – are mentioned in that journal of yours."

"And I – _I_ have to kill them?" she said wide-eyed.

"No – not all of them no – they will show themselves. Not many of these creatures intend any harm; the majority of them are content living a diplomatic life, while others are inclined to various degrees of carnage. They know if you are taught properly they cannot follow through with their plans, but now – they are also aware that you have awakened my brother."

"Just like that?"

"There are ranks – yes – _even_ vampires have such, of course there is a certain animosity for us, as we are socially accepted due to our humanity. Particularly loathed due to the fact that we have aided humans in special circumstances like now, but you are of course wondering why –_ I_ – myself am not your minder?"

Molly gave a slow nod at that, while Mycroft continued, "My brother – is quite special – if he were an ordinary man he would still be extraordinary – he is most suitable in all aspects to have you as his charge. He never did feel adequate in the time we were brought up in, always having these projects of his - meddling too much," he paused briefly looking suddenly wearier, "Sherlock never chose this life – this life – _chose_ him."

Molly felt stupid for wondering, maybe it was an obvious thing to those like_ him_, "If he's so powerful – why was he – _dead_?"

"It would perhaps be better if you asked how he was bitten," he said with a snort.

"Ok…_how_ was he bitten?"

Mycroft gave her a look at that clearly amused, "I think it is time for you to eat your dinner. You will need it to get through the night – his pain at being awoken will certainly weaken you."

He stood up at that intending to leave, while she sat trying to get over her nausea, "I don't – I don't want to be anyone's master," she said defiantly, some strength coming to her at last, as she tilted her chin upwards.

He looked at her, his eyes glinting, "Which is exactly why I allowed it to happen – no one willing should be given such power – you won't abuse your power, there is far too much good in you for that…and that is exactly what my brother needs."

She felt unexpected anger flare up in her mind, aggravation over Mycroft, over his assumptions, causing her to moan over the pain in her head, "Do have some rest - Mrs Hudson will take care of all of the arrangements. You will be living in London from now on…good night, Molly." However, he stilled by the door, turning to her, "A word to the wise – do try not to fall in love with him."

He left at that, leaving her to even more confusing thoughts that it felt as if her head would burst open any second. Mrs Hudson soon came scurrying happily in with a tray, though when she saw Molly's face she brought her to one of the bedrooms, quickly getting her into the four-poster bed helping her change into a white night-shirt. When she was safely tucked underneath the covers it was apparent that she barely could hold the spoon to her soup, so Mrs Hudson sat upon the bed slowly feeding her with the warmth broth, "I won't try to mother you too much," said Mrs Hudson with a warm smile, "You're probably too old for that."

"No, it's fine," said Molly feeling herself tearing up for no reason at all, the warm tears leaking down her hot cheeks, "Is it – is it always like this?" She wasn't sad, tired perhaps – and a great deal confused. Molly knew it had to be Mycroft's brother who was inducing these tears, making her wonder why he was so…sad.

"It will be easier," said Mrs Hudson with a knowing look.

"Are you-," she started, though the woman promptly stuffed the spoon into her mouth. Obviously Molly wasn't the only one who'd made a sacrifice once to reawaken a vampire. She kept her mouth shut with the understanding that if it were so, Mrs Hudson wasn't willing to talk about it.

"Sherlock – I've missed him - though he always made a mess of things," she said collecting pieces of chicken with a spoon, until she slipped it into Molly's mouth.

Molly swallowed, "How long has he been dead?"

"A very long time, I was only eighteen when he fell_ asleep_. I didn't know him as well as I do Mycroft."

"How old are you?" said Molly confused.

Mrs Hudson smiled, "Older than I look – _we_ – live longer dear, it's a load, really - in a way."

"You're the same as _me_, then?" she said remembering that Mycroft mentioned Mrs Hudson would teach her.

"Oh, yes, I didn't ask for it – I was only six when I was told, it's a heavy burden to carry, knowing all that - at such a young age, but you are lucky having just found out – you're more than ready for it – even if you are, in his eyes, only a child."

Molly wasn't surprised, "He's a bit scary though, not in a bad way – but – I wish he'd told me before we did it," she said wondering why Mycroft was keeping certain things from her. She didn't entirely understand, for she had more questions than answers now.

"I meant Sherlock, dear," said Mrs Hudson correcting her.

Molly looked at the woman fearfully for a second, as Mrs Hudson set the bowl of soup on the nightstand, "I'll leave this here for you, in case you get hungry. Just give me a shout – and I'll come, I'll be a bit slow due to the hip, mind you," she said smiling taking to stand up from the bed, putting her hand on Molly's forehead, "Keep yourself nice and warm underneath the covers – though – and do – try to sleep dear."

Mrs Hudson shut the door to the bedroom softly, though Molly who had been tired not so long ago felt suddenly quite rejuvenated, suspecting that the broth she'd been given was special in a way, though the minute she started to sit up in the bed a new wave of agony hit her head. It was overpowering, it was all-too confusing, if this was only a _tenth_ of what he was feeling – how on earth did he cope? There were many thoughts that raced through her head, while she tried to drift off to sleep, until she finally slept… However she was still moving in the bed constantly flinging off her covers feeling feverish.

* * *

The door to her bedroom opened slowly, a man walking in – his feet unclothed making no sound against the carpet. He stood by the bed, his steely blue eyes luminous, while he surveyed the sleeping form underneath the sheets seeming exasperated, before he rested his cold palm upon her hot forehead stilling her entirely – a low sigh released from her lips, as the tension disappeared from her features – only a content smile to be seen. He slowly moved his hand and removed himself from her bedroom; upon closing the door he heard the familiar drawl from his brother, "Back from the dead, are we?"

"Hardly," he said, his face set, as his eyes flew towards Mycroft mingled with various emotions, but above all others – annoyance, "Must be irritating."

"I have _missed_ having you around."

"You should have let me sleep."

"Things have taken a turn for the worst, Sherlock. England is not the England you knew."

"Good," he said with a bored expression, before walking along the darkened hallway, his brother closely followed his long strides with ease.

"I am, however, glad you had the decency to dress this time," Mycroft said, his eyes shimmering a brief red, obviously to assert his dominance, but it did not work.

"Yes – I see you have things in my size – wishful thinking, perhaps? A diet is as difficult enough to maintain for us, as it was when you were alive, best not attempt it dead."

Mycroft gave a laugh, though his expression turned serious, as he stopped walking prompting Sherlock to turn to look at him, "You know you will need to finish it, or else it will have all been pointless."

"No."

"Why not?"

"She is only a child."

"She is sixteen – hardly a child."

"She was wearing a school-uniform when she came, which I suspect will be cleaned – I won't have you parading her around."

"We do not yet know what is after her, however I have my suspicions that it is one of your old_ friends_."

Sherlock's face convulsed briefly, his face a blank mask after that, though his brother caught the brief horror.

"You know what he seeks, if you do not act now – he will find her – he will break her – until she is as empty as he is – _you_ will only break her heart…" Sherlock heard the un-uttered word, the thought threaded through his brother's mind – _again_. It was there; hidden amongst the other plans his brother weaved unknowingly to them all.

"You are not in control of my life," he said through gritted teeth his eyes of unfathomable red, causing his brother to take a step back, though Mycroft only took to laugh.

"No, I am not – Molly Hooper is," his brother said, "Goodnight brother, pleasant dreams."

Sherlock knew there was no other way of fortifying her for now, so she would not become a target to any other, as they would do their best to use her for their cause if they had a chance. He would attempt to post-pone it, however best he would, for he knew that she was safe for now, until Professor Moriarty would come to claim his prize.

* * *

Molly didn't know how early she'd been woken, before she'd promptly been guided into the dining room for breakfast, still in a nightie, and an all-too large blue dressing gown, which made her feel rather small, but she felt it was better than wandering about in her school-clothes that were being washed. She never suspected she would have to spend the night, skiving another day off school, which was a record for her.

She wondered if her aunt Lucy was at all wondering where she was. Her aunt was perhaps glad to get rid of her, especially since the money would still be pouring in even without her presence. Upon entering the dining room she was taken aback by the sunlight that streamed through the large windows, happy that it wasn't unusually dark like the rest of the rooms, which she suspected was due to Mycroft's _condition_, if vampires did indeed spend their time in the dark that was, but that could in fact just be fictitious too. She knew that she should be pouring over the pages of her father's journal trying to seek all the facts, as they were most likely disclosed in there, even how much she disliked having to look at them as truth.

Though nothing could have ever prepared her for the sight of the man sitting at the end of the table with a newspaper propped up in front of him, she stopped in surprise, her hand held in front of her face shielding her from the sun, "Oh – sorry – I-," she said.

The newspaper was dropped an inch or two, revealing the pale-faced man, "Molly," he said – her name sounded strange with his baritone voice, causing her to halt, for she recognised it as the whisper in the woods.

She gaped slightly, for here he was -_ Sherlock_ – the man in the tomb looking quite the opposite of what he had been when she first caught sight of his decrepit body, "You're – you're-," she started, her eyes getting caught in the stream of the sunlight, until they flew towards him wondering briefly if it was rude to ask instead of consulting the journal.

There was something ethereal about his look; his dark curls hung low on his forehead making his cheek-bones more prominent, if she weren't so surprised she would have thought him handsome, but she had already thought that upon seeing his portrait (a thought she tried to dismiss now).

"Sunshine, yes," he quipped his eyes turning towards the paper, "The weather has certainly taken a turn for the better since I was last here," he said making it almost sound like he'd been on a holiday, "1989 – what a time to be _alive_." He didn't sound terribly excited merrily bored by it all, like in his portrait.

Molly felt herself turn red; quickly binding the ropes of her robe hoping she didn't look like such a child, but she suspected in the eyes of a man who lived for so long, however youthful he looked, she was probably barely anything to him.

Her embarrassment for not being properly dressed diminished when she caught sight of him wearing a robe similar to hers, and she soon realised that she was perhaps wearing his clothes. Instead of standing gaping like a fool she hastened to the table sitting at the opposite end of him, only to realise that she was being impolite and was about to change her seat, when he said, "That will do."

It was a command; she could hear the words practically vibrate on her skin, though it did not affect her whatsoever, except that it made her amazed at how low his voice could become.

She only sat down again when she noted that there was food at her end of the table – none at his – except a cup of coffee. Mycroft had said his brother was different, though she didn't entirely know what an ordinary vampire was either, and if the movies were anything to go by, they didn't consume _human_ food.

His eyes turned to her making her realise she was openly staring, his brows furrowed, and she instantly paid attention to her plate quickly buttering some toast, staring at the wide assortment in front of her – briefly wondering why she wasn't as hungry as usual, for she enjoyed breakfast quite a lot. "You must be hungry," he said not looking up from his paper smiling slightly, however it did not reach his eyes.

"Eat," he said.

She did eat more than enough, her eyes wandering every so often, and quite frequently landing on the mysterious man at the end of her table – the vampire, that was - a vampire who was up at sunrise and drinking coffee of all things.

Molly didn't know what to do when she couldn't eat anymore, briefly recalling that Mycroft had mentioned her moving to London, which she was surprised at. She had thought it would be safer living with her aunt…or perhaps, _them_? However she knew that there was no home for her in either of those options, the only home she'd ever had was gone, and it had always been full of life, of laughter, and now she would be living alone.

The idea shook her, for she knew that she only had a few things in her ruck-sack and her school-uniform. She didn't know if they'd allow her to go back to school considering things. Her life had taken quite the unexpected turn, and she didn't know if it sparked horror or joy, somehow, despite it all - it was the latter – for she could feel the imminent burst of excitement. She wasn't _plain_ Molly, or _mousy_ Molly anymore – she had brought a man back to life, and that wasn't something many could boast about.

"I do hope you'll stop thinking, it is giving me a head-ache. My brother will have taken all of those details into consideration anyway."

She stared at him in shock – Mycroft had spoken of them being able to feel one another's emotions, but, "You can – you can hear my thoughts?" she blurted out.

"No," he said flinging the newspaper on the table in annoyance, hurriedly standing up, "I can _feel _them."

He walked towards the door while she sat blinking furiously in her chair, feeling a sudden surge of irritation course through her – one that wasn't hers – replaced with sudden elation, which made her brows connect, until it simmered down – "Is it always going to be like this?" she asked quietly.

His back was to her, as he stood in the doorway, "The more apart we are – it will lessen," he said though she knew he was lying. She didn't need to see his face, or feel his thoughts linger in her mind, for she could hear it in his voice.

"What does it mean?"

"Further than that you do not need to know," he said and with that he left, his robe swirling behind his back.

Molly was left to her own annoyance this time, turning into confusion when she finally got handed her ruck-sack, and sat with the journal – _Vampires do not dwell in light. They must move in the dark. _

* * *

Mycroft had left during the night for business, as Mrs Hudson soon informed her that he had a position with the government,

"But – he's a _vampire_ - do they know?" she asked, while they were wandering outside on the grounds, taking in the sun and the air, so Molly could ask her questions undisturbed or without the judging eye of Sherlock who she supposed didn't like her much. She didn't feel like stressing her power over him for she'd been left a letter from Mycroft –

_Miss Hooper, _

_My brother, however acquainted he is with the fact that you are his master will not bow to you if you do not remind him. I know that the idea does not indulge your whims, however it will make the transition easier for you both if you do. He is quite obstinate for a man his age, and will most likely argue his ways anyway, so it is best to be as concise as possible if you are to have any control of the matters at hand. _

_In consideration to your future home I will seek out a place in London, I know of a few good spots, and will find one that both you and Mrs Hudson will reside in, so you can begin your tutelage with no harm done. You will of course have your privacy, though she will be at hand if she is ever needed. Do listen to her - she might seem old, but she is much more than that. If there is one who can teach you all of the ways it is she. _

_No one could best her in her day, listen to her carefully, and you can take your tutelage besides your school. Do not worry about money for all of it will be taken care of._

_I owed your father a favour after all. _

_Mycroft H. _

"Oh yes, most of the cabinet are vampires, dear. That's why they're so stingy with new opinions," she said with a laugh, though Mrs Hudson soon told her that Mycroft had positioned himself quite high up, and no one asked many questions really, when he oversaw them, of course the fact that there indeed were actual vampires in the cabinet did make her giggle, "They manage to wander about with umbrellas or loads of sunscreen, which is why they're a pasty lot, you know. Mycroft keeps an umbrella always at hand, just for that."

"No one ever wonders why?"

"He tells them he has a skin condition, it's quite easy dear, many vampires walk about London without anyone minding them."

"But – what – what about Sherlock?"

"What about him?"

"He was having breakfast – I mean he was sitting in the sun, and in dad's journal that's not supposed to be possible."

Mrs Hudson shook her head slightly, "Oh, he loves doing that – gave me a right fright that did - the first time I saw him wander about in broad daylight."

"Is he really a vampire?"

Mrs Hudson smiled, "Very much so, though he's different from the lot of them."

"Why?"

She looked at her at that, her eyes twinkling, "That's for him to answer really, you'll find out soon enough I suppose, but it's not my place to tell you."

"Oh," said Molly frustrated.

"Its better you don't know really, dear. It's not a pleasant story exactly."

"Ok, but – how – do you know how he died?"

"Yes."

"You're not going to tell me, are you?"

"No – I can tell you about our neighbours and the gossip about, but none about those things."

Molly frowned, though she soon grinned, "I'm glad you're coming with me Mrs Hudson. I was – I was a bit afraid I'd be alone."

"You'll get tired of me, dear - I'm sure – but I'll fatten you up at least with my home cooked meals, it'll be good taking care of someone – though I am not going to mind you all the time. At least Mycroft seems to plan to leave for London too, things are getting trickier at work for him, I suppose."

"I heard – he was talking about Margaret Thatcher."

"Oh, yes, never liked her."

"Is she a vampire?"

"No, unfortunately not – it would make her easier to forgive though."

"Mrs Hudson – is it…hard learning to fight?"

"Everything is to begin with, but you aren't weak dear, so don't be scared – let's get in."

"I'm not as scared, as I am to let anyone down. I didn't expect this - just last week I thought my biggest hurdle were my exams, and now – someone's – or _anything_ really is trying to kill me. I just don't want to be a burden to any of you. I thought I was coming here, for well, I don't know…"

"Don't fidget dear, it'll be fine - promise," said Mrs Hudson.

The pair of them walked back to the house as rain started to fall amidst the sunshine, it was then, when Molly was by the stony steps that she felt slightly dizzy, her eyes turned towards the gate where she saw Sherlock striding in pushing the gates open in the rain – his shirt drenched in red. If it was blood, for she suspected it was – he looked rather calm, and he briefly met her eye. She was perhaps not scared of him, though she felt like she should be.

* * *

Her fear for the mysterious Holmes brother increased ten-fold during her search in the pages of the journal to find any explanation to his existence, to why he could dwell underneath the sun without any trouble, but there were none. She was sitting in her newly cleaned school-uniform in the library that evening after dinner where Mrs Hudson explained that Sherlock used to hunt in those exact forests, "There's less there now, only wild rabbits," but she didn't dwell on the topic longer than that, only adding the fact that their kitchens were well-stocked with blood from the hospital that Mycroft used, "Anything else would be rather unhygienic, dear," she said with a sigh, obviously annoyed with Sherlock's antics.

Molly, however, was surprised that he didn't join them, though she was under the distinct impression that he was avoiding her, which somehow felt rather frustrating to her. She didn't know, but most of her time she felt rather cooped up, and it was just her second day there. It didn't take her long to understand that it was his emotions that cluttered her mind with suppressed anger.

He was angry with her, she supposed, or could gather from his emotions, whether or not it was due to her awakening him, or being his master she couldn't figure out. While she sat trying to read the journal that explained vampires fully, it became apparent that he did not fit the mould whatsoever; he did not dwell in the dark, or seem to frown upon human food, since Mrs Hudson had excused him from the dinner telling her he was busy. He wasn't a regular vampire at all, not like his brother, and she wasn't scared of him, but she was nervous. The energy that surrounded him was irresistible, everything about him so very strong, that she supposed it had to be their connection.

Amidst her reading however she felt the floor of the library creak, she looked up from the journal to find him walk slowly into the library his eyes briefly lingering on her, until he fetched himself a book. She forced her eyes back on the pages watching the grotesque illustrations of vampires that neither he nor his brother fit, for both looked human in their appearance. Sherlock was even wearing well-tailored clothing, though more casual than his brother with a pair of dark trousers and a purple shirt.

Molly heard him sigh and found herself looking up at him expectantly, as he said with his back turned towards her, "You won't find anything here."

She'd been trying to find a book in the library that contained any obscure detail, though those she found were encyclopaedias or botanical or written in Latin, but none were books about vampires, "Oh?" she said as casually as she could muster.

"We don't keep books about our kind –_ yours_ is the only book that is worth reading, even though narrow-minded," he said turning around, his eyes remaining on the journal in her hands.

She frowned slightly, though she had to agree, since the pages were frightfully over-dramatic at best and she wondered if it was a joke made her on her dad's part since the drawings of the vampires were disfigured compared to him.

Curiosity came over her though, "How – how come you can be in daylight – without burning up? There's nothing about it in the book," she said feeling like she should apologise for the question when she'd uttered it.

His eyes flitted over to her amused, a book clutched in his hands, "Because I want to," he said cryptically walking out into the doorway, "Goodnight, Molly," he said his voice echoing through the darkened hallway.

She stared after him long after he was gone, listening to his slow steps, as she heard a door opening in the distance. To her surprise she heard the swell of music fill the house – it was a violin – an eerie tune playing filling her with sadness, and she knew it was his. She listened in wonder, briefly wondering why he seemed bent upon proving his lack of humanity to her, for she understood now that his display upon entering the grounds, covered in blood, were purely to point out that fact.

The thought followed her into bed that night, as she lay in her nightgown; her thoughts muddled by a sudden feeling of guilt. She quickly shook off the sensation, slowly drifting off to sleep – her dreams a blend of memories that she knew weren't hers causing her to whimper in her sleep.

* * *

Molly suddenly felt a cold finger on her lips stilling her whimpers, making her gasp, as her eyes sprang open. Sleep was still in her eyes, while she blinked furiously trying to speak, though words seemed lost to her when gazing into a pair of blue eyes, the same blue eyes that had seemingly been angered with her presence before, but he was now sitting on her bed. The moon shone from the window upon his pale body that she realised was exposed, as he calmly searched her face.

She didn't know what to think, what to do or what to say, for in all essence she felt calm, but the minute he pried his finger from her lips that sensation washed away, and she sat up in the bed startled, clinging the covers underneath her chin, "Sherlock?" she said quietly.

He did not answer, his face pensive, as he sighed, before he slipped underneath the sheets of her bed, while she gave no protest of any kind wondering what on earth was going on. Sherlock lied beside her silently, his eyes turning to hers, while she swallowed away her shock, but all of that dissolved when his mouth found hers, tipping up her chin for better access. Words that she thought of speaking stuck in her throat, as she felt his cold naked body cover hers.

For every touch all of her worries disappeared, feeling her body heat up at his caress, and was surprised to find heat in his body after all. The minute she sensed him turn warm, his hands clutched her to him pulling her in, and his mouth seared upon hers making her lips feel bruised. She had never once been touched like this – delicately – yet there was slight roughness in his grip, but he seemed to be handling her like she was fragile – like she would disappear in her bed any second.

Was it real? She didn't know, didn't need to know, as his mouth nibbled at her neck, finding the soft spots of her flesh making her mewl underneath him, while his breath turned ragged, and she felt his muscles flex underneath the touch of her hands on his bare back. He slowly slipped her dress above her head, taking his time to feel her body quiver underneath him, and her legs wrapped him closer to her out of pure instinct. Every bit of her that thought it was wrong flew away by every trace of him on her skin, from the way his mouth took in a pink nipple between his teeth, and she felt almost like she was drowning the minute he made her lips easily part.

He tasted like metal, like blood, like fire – a fire that filled her body making her want to cry out his name, as his piercing gaze penetrated her. A soft cry from her brought him to action, as his mouth moved from hers, trailing kisses down her stomach, until he was between her parted legs, his tongue twisting inside her cunt. She gasped at the way he lapped up her juices, grabbing at her hips, pushing her into his mouth, and continued to drink her in. Molly did not know what to do with herself, her nails digging into the bed, as he made her feel like she was bursting at the seams. He brought himself up, his mouth slick with her, letting her taste herself, as he kissed her repeatedly – until her lips were sore.

He brought her closer, spreading her thighs, and she felt him press against her with his cock that twitched by her thigh. She felt delight at having produced such, something so simple in someone else, and looked at it in wonder – until it disappeared inside of her, pressing inside her with such want it made her eyes roll into the back of her head. It hurt, yet it didn't – it felt exquisite, to be filled up, having him rock back inside of her, until she could only make breathy grasps that tried to utter his name. Her walls clenched around him, and she felt him struggle to keep on, to continue, as guilt poured from him. Molly was slowly brought to reality, though her mind vanished, and everything turned blissfully dark, she could only discern a faint red in his eyes in the end.

* * *

Molly's eyes blinked open to sunshine, hearing the soft drum of an engine, and she woke up fully realising she was in a car with Mrs Hudson besides her. She sat up suddenly alert, her hand brought to her head, as she realised she was still in her nightie, but dressed in a dark coat that was unfamiliar – though its scent not, "What's – what's going on?" she said with a yawn, seeing that she had a seatbelt on.

"I didn't want to wake you dear," said Mrs Hudson, "You were sleeping so well."

She stared at the woman in surprise, "We're leaving."

"Oh, yes – your things are packed – Mycroft sent word of a flat, a nice place were we can both have our privacy called-,"

"But - but-," said Molly sitting upright in her seat, catching sight of the mansion in the rear window, as they slowly drove past the gate, " – I thought…" she must have been dreaming she supposed, breathing deeply, but she swore she saw a pair of red eyes flash in a window of the first floor before vanishing.

" – Well – it'll be alright, not much to do there, cooped up inside all day. London will be fun," said Mrs Hudson.

"Oh," said Molly feeling sad all of a sudden, like she'd lost something.

"We'll be living at 221 Baker Street," said Mrs Hudson, who did not speak anymore throughout their drive, and Molly was grateful for it, as her thoughts slid towards a man. It wasn't before they'd gotten to Baker Street, and she was given the key to the upstairs flat, ready to take a bath that she saw the dried up blood between her thighs.


	3. 1990 Pt 1

**A/N: **Thank you _AussieMaelstrom _for being my beta!

* * *

_Regrets collect like old friends_

_Here to relive your darkest moments_

_I can see no way, I can see no way_

_And all the ghouls come out to play_

_And every demon wants his pound of flesh_

_But I like to keep some things to myself_

_I like to keep my issues strong_

_It's always darkest before the dawn_

**1990**

Her toes curled into the sand, as the cold-water brushed against her ankles. The wind was tearing upon the thin grey cloth that hung on her frail frame, but she did not mind. She soon scampered across the shore, leaving small footprints that were swallowed up by the sea.

A voice was spurring her on_, "Étoile,"_ it whispered.

She had heard it while her hand lingered on her sleeping mother, whose chest did not move anymore in the cottage by the shore.

The words spoken weren't her name however. Neither did she remember her name, for nobody said it anymore. There was only one thing she knew, and that was that she was alone.

It was then she saw the boy; his voice calling out, though his lips weren't moving. His face was pale, his body drenched in water, as he lay on the shore. She bent down besides him, taking in his pale face, and wondered – was he_ too_ asleep?

She did not know, digging her hands into the sand, as she tried to think of a way to wake him. The skin on her hands cracked open on a jagged rock, but she did not mind. Her body was riddled with scars and bruises, so the blood that burst forth was nothing to her. In the end she let her tiny hands roam the face of the boy, when she did not find an answer in the sand. He remained still, not whispering the words that brought her there. She stayed by his side for a while, until his eyes broke open, blue and unyielding…

* * *

_Brrrrrrrring._

Molly's eyes blinked open, her hand slipping from underneath her chin, as she realised she'd fallen asleep during class again. She sighed, catching the eye of several classmates, but they only grinned at her. Everyone always thought she was just taking naps for the fun of it, to prove that she didn't need to stay awake to be the top of the class, but she knew differently.

The bell was ringing of course, everyone hastily getting up on their feet, as several shouted, "Merry Christmas!" It was after all the holidays, though for her it probably meant more lessons.

These lessons were not about cramming maths or writing essays, for she'd done most of that already, so she wouldn't have to worry about it.

Molly slowly stood up from her seat, carefully packing her rucksack, as she was one of the few left behind. Not that she minded really, for she didn't feel like chatting about her holidays, knowing she'd probably have to lie anyway.

Someone coughed loudly, and she looked up to see Professor Strand eyeing her, "Miss Hooper – you don't look especially pleased on the prospect of a holiday."

His glasses were perched on his long nose, as he slowly raised his brows at her. Professor Strand never minded if she fell asleep during his classes, his voice gravelly enough to induce such a thing. No one minded, since Mycroft had devised a false slip about her suffering from narcolepsy. To begin with she'd be woken up, but to the various professors bemusement she'd always have the answer ready. It was as if a part of her was present, while the other was asleep.

Molly sighed, "I'm just a bit tired, sir," she said finally slinging her rug-sack onto her back, stifling back a yawn.

"Do try to have a holiday, Miss Hooper," he said with a knowing expression, before wandering out with his briefcase.

Holiday.

She liked the sound of that, but no, she had to learn the ways of a hunter instead. It would seem less pointless had she met any villainous vampires since that night. Her having a protector seemed unnecessary, especially when he wasn't _there._ She hadn't seen him since she left the Holmes estate, but truth be told it was as if he were there anyway.

Their dreams, their thoughts, their feelings all melted together as one. She did not know where she started and he began.

He really had lied when he said distance would make her hurt less, and she knew he too was suffering. If he was her salvation, she felt she was being punished for it. For he, Sherlock Holmes, was a ghost and he was haunting her. No news was given about him, not about his whereabouts, or how he was, as her _guardians _had not mentioned him since.

Neither did she know how to breach the topic, as to what had happened that night. A night that kept slipping away from her every time she gave it a thought, as if _he_ was trying to keep it away from her. She just knew one thing and that something important had taken place that night, and it was not just in the sense of her virtue being gone.

There was something else, like a distant memory, and her dreams were the clues. At the beginning, when she'd started to slip away like that she supposed it was just dreams, but the same scene repeated itself, always stopping when the boy woke up. The harder she tried to understand it, the less she did. It was like everything else in her life at the moment.

She was a part of a world that she saw no evidence of, except those tiny fragments she had from Mycroft displaying his powers. This winter he had been spending a ghastly amount of time at Baker Street, to her annoyance, though she supposed it was some of Sherlock's feelings influencing her, but she started to agree with him.

"Molly," cried out a voice causing her to stop in the hallway.

There was only one person who'd regularly shout her name at school, and that was Mary, a curvy blonde, who was currently bearing a massive grin on her face. However, the instant she caught up with her she was heaving for breath, as she said breathlessly, "What are you doing tonight, then?"

Mary had been asking her the same question all week, to her horror, as she didn't have the strength to compose another lie as to why she couldn't go out, like everyone else did. She'd been turning her down for ages. Either Mrs Hudson, or _granny_, as everyone thought she was – was ill – or her _uncle_ Mycroft was forcing her on a trip out of the city, but for once she didn't want to lie. After all, they hadn't told her whether or not this Christmas was going to be spent entirely on lessons yet, "Err – I – don't know," she said feeling stupid.

"I'll take that as a yes then – as I said – the party is tonight," said Mary with a broad grin, putting her hand on her shoulder, as they walked together down the rather empty hallways.

"I-," said Molly almost wanting to make up an excuse. Truth be told she was nervous about going out. She'd heard enough stories of the goings-on to know that she might feel a bit uncomfortable dolling herself up, only to have someone throw sick on her shoes.

Mary groaned, "Come on – it'll be fun – I promise! After all Tim's going, and he fancies you, you know. After all, you've never been to a pub."

"Wait – a _pub?_ – I thought you said it was a party?" said Molly surprised.

The idea of a party had seemed safer, at least, for then they'd be in someone's home.

"Right – ok – so not a party, but your granny's so nice though. She'd say yes in a sodding heartbeat if you asked her for a bottle of wine, even. I'm sure she won't say no now, and we can even - dance," said Mary who demonstratively wiggled her hip against Molly who recoiled in surprise.

She stopped in her stride, "It's not a pub either, is it?" she said laughing, when Mary gave her a guilty face.

"Ok – right – it's not a party or a pub. It's a new club."

"A club?"

"It's supposed to be posh, too, and there'll be loads of people there. Hopefully the cool ones, don't you think? Especially if _we _are there. Just say yes, will you? I'm not taking a no for once," said Mary running off in the distance, "I've got to go – but – I'll be around your flat around nine – _we're_ – going to have fun – I promise!"

Mary disappeared off at that, late for her bus, as always, while Molly slowly walked until she was outside the school-gates. She met the familiar black car that drove her to and from school everyday, where a man stood leaning on the car, his face shielded by a newspaper. He dropped it the second he saw her.

"Hello – Peter," she said eyeing the paper he tucked underneath his arm, as he propped his hat on top of his ginger curls.

"Good afternoon, Molly. Ready for the holidays, then?" he said all business-like, giving her a wry smile, as he busied himself with the task of opening her door.

She broke out in a smile, soon settling inside, as he shut the door behind her, hurriedly occupying the driver seat, "No…not really. I don't think I've got a holiday this year either – Mycroft might already be hiding behind the door to _kill _me."

"He won't do that again, Miss Hooper, I'm sure he won't," said Peter who was trying hard not to laugh.

"I know – it's just – I wish he wasn't so cross about it still," she said with a giggle, as they drove off to Baker Street.

It wasn't like Molly couldn't walk, or take the tube, but she was well guarded – too guarded in her opinion. Luckily none of her classmates seemed to think much of it, occasionally getting in with her, as the school was private after all. Molly knew she was getting _the best of the best_, according to Mycroft Holmes.

Her school uniform was in pristine order, so were her shoes, but her rucksack was still the same old one she'd gotten from her dad on her 15th birthday. She didn't wish to part with it, even with how well-worn it looked, "He'll get over it, you know," said Peter interrupting her thoughts, and reminding her of Mycroft's involvement in her _lessons._

He wasn't particularly fond of being involved hands-on – legwork was apparently not his thing, as he mainly spoke to her, which she suspected was due to his not wanting to dirty his immaculate suits.

"It is merely deduction _or_ observation, if you like," he had said to her, explaining to her why he always knew what she'd been up to, the minute he saw her.

"You mean just seeing people?" she said dumbfounded.

"No, there is a difference between looking and observing. If I look at a person I make a form of judgement based on prejudice. Observation, however, is an intricate view on the details surrounding the person – from a well-worn shoe – to an expensive watch – all can be seen if you look hard enough. It is beneficial if you know how to do this, it'll make you aware of anyone suspicious."

She tried for weeks, barely scraping the surface of his meaning, while Mrs Hudson's lessons were the opposite. Molly knew that the reason she took it with ease was because apparently she was a natural from birth. Still, the old woman was surprisingly quick on her feet, as well as strong, though Mrs Hudson usually sat knitting while she made Molly do her exercises on her own.

"The most important thing, dear – is to think on your feet. Your reflexes are quicker than others, not unlike a vampire, but you still have to keep your head about you."

She liked Mrs Hudson best of course, even if she knew little about her, but she knew even less when it came to Mycroft. She only knew he liked to be in control, as he'd regularly know everything that happened during her day with or without Peter telling him.

Peter, from what she understood, used to work for the government, dealing with secrets, which was obviously why he was driving her around London wherever she liked to go (mostly to Baker Street however). She didn't understand why he'd gotten this job instead, but it comforted her having him around. Not because she was afraid of a vampire-attack in broad daylight, but by the fact that he seemed blissfully normal.

He didn't pop out with random remarks like Mrs Hudson did, suddenly telling her about a bit of a problem she once had with a vampire, or advise her to be vigilant like Mycroft did. Mostly what Peter did was laugh at the whole thing, which in some ways was odd, but she found it easier to breathe.

She felt normal around him, instead of the last survivor of her family. The last Hooper of what was once a great family. Her father had never mentioned it to her, only briefly saying that her grandparents had died before she was born, but they'd all been murdered. No wonder he didn't talk much his family.

It hadn't been a good day hearing that, or the fact that her dad had been slowly poisoned to death, and the memory made her jump into the car with Peter. He drove her off getting her ice cream, as he started talking about his romantic failures to distract her.

"Do you think they'll let me go?" she asked seeing his eyes flicker towards her in the mirror, letting her thoughts rest instead on something _normal._ Her friends weren't orphaned, their parents weren't murdered by something as ridiculous as vampires, though when asked she'd only mentioned them being in a car-accident.

"Go where?" he said with an innocent expression, pursing his lips at her.

"You always know Peter – I suppose he's got ears all around the school," she said not meeting his eye, "Do you think they'll let me go to this party, then?"

"I think you mean club," said Peter with a chuckle.

Molly grinned, "Ok – _club_," she said looking up.

"You're a bit young, aren't you?" he said with a serious expression, "Not that I'm the best to ask about this, since I started rather - err – _well_ – are you going to drink, then?"

"No," she said looking affronted.

He raised a brow at her, "Right."

"I suppose it's going to be lessons this Christmas, again," she said letting out a breath.

"Chin up, Molly. It won't be that bad, at least you'll get to thrash Mycroft around a bit."

She was surprisingly strong for being so small, it was the benefits of being _a hunter_, she supposed.

* * *

The minute she'd gotten to 221 Baker Street, the door swinging open at her touch she heard the kettle go off behind Mrs Hudson's door. Molly hung up her coat, as she settled her rucksack on the floor heading into the older woman's flat. She lived alone upstairs, which was odd for her, but Mrs Hudson wasn't more than a shout away.

_A hunter was supposed to be alone, after all. _

When one ventured into Mrs Hudson's little flat, one knew it was hers. It was the smell of potpourri, to the ridiculous ornamental figurines, the well-stocked kitchen, and the baked goods that occupied tin-boxes with the Queen drawn upon them, "Had a good day then, dear?" Mrs Hudson asked the minute she'd gotten to the kitchen, settling down upon a chair, as the woman handed her a cup of tea.

She sat with the cuppa in her hands as she sighed, "We're going to work during Christmas, aren't we?"

Mrs Hudson tutted loudly, settling into the chair across from her, "No, not this year dear. I wasn't keen on doing it last, but it's going to be different this time. You should have some days off at least, to put your feet up, and then there's that party."

Molly perked up at that, though she felt herself frowning, "How do you know?"

"Your friend Mary is rather loud, dear," she said with a smile, "Peter doesn't need to listen very hard when she's chattering away like that."

Molly took a sip of her cup, "I don't need to go, you know."

"It'll be good for you, to be out with others your age. You can't be stuck here with me during your holidays. It's not like you'll be doing this every night."

"No, it's alright. I think I'll just stay in."

Mrs Hudson looked at her for a moment, settling her cup into its saucer, "Molly, it's not that you shouldn't have friends, it's just you need-,"

"To be aware there might be trouble," said Molly, "I know, but I don't even know if I want to go."

"You're 17 now – a young girl your age – well, I'd be out dancing, if I were you, and Mycroft says you should."

"Mycroft?" said Molly gaping, "_He_ wants me to go?"

"Locking yourself up won't do you, or any of those around you any favours. There's a difference between learning to be alone, and being alone. After all, I do get on with things."

She bit her lip, slowly smiling, "That's true, you've always got Norah over."

"Yes, well - I've got to have some fun after all – I'd be driven mad if I stayed in doors, and so would you. After all Mycroft isn't one to have round for tea, exactly."

"He does come often, though."

"Oh, he likes to keep an eye on things, that one does, unlike his brother."

She blinked at that, feeling her cheeks flush at the mere mention of him, as she quickly asked, "Where is Sherlock – I've not seen him – since-,"

"Oh I don't know he likes to wander off – _oh_ – look at the time… You better get dressed, it'll probably take some time before you've got all your things in order, when Mary pops round."

* * *

Being forced to be a teenager wasn't exactly ideal, as she hardly expected to be shoved promptly out of the door, when she was worried they weren't going to let her go out in the first place.

Now, instead of feeling like she'd been rewarded with a holiday, she felt dreadful, but she knew it was nerves. She was still coping with the fact that she was actually going out, _properly_, and with people she liked. Molly felt dread fill her while she got dressed, and it didn't vanish the second the doorbell rang, making her run shakily down the steps in a hurry.

She opened the door to Mary who was occupied with a bag from Tesco's, "So – I've got-," she said taking to stop, when she saw her, "Wait – you're – you're dressed?"

"You – you thought I wasn't going?" said Molly startled, as Mary started to grin broadly.

"Oh my God – you're actually – _wow_ – ok – this is fantastic," said Mary who dropped the bag from Tesco's inside, "Except the bit where I've worn a jumper, but I can still dance."

"We don't have to," said Molly hurriedly.

"It's only crisps in the bag, so forget the crisps – we're going," she said pushing at Molly forcing her to get her coat, while Mrs Hudson stepped out of her flat.

"Mary, you look festive," said Mrs Hudson, eyeing Mary's red jumper.

"Hiya gran," said Mary with a small wave of her hand, while Molly buttoned up her coat, soon slinging her rucksack on her back. Mary who was about to open her mouth to say something to Mrs Hudson stared, "You're not bringing that, are you?"

Molly adjusted the straps on her shoulders, feeling the reassuring weight on her back, as she knew the contents – a purse – her keys – and the heaviest object; a stake.

_A hunter should always be prepared. _

"Err, it's just – I've got all I need in this," said Molly eyeing Mrs Hudson who laughed.

"I think it'll be best to take the small one, don't you agree?" said Mrs Hudson to Mary who nodded.

"You're not bringing books with you, are you?" said Mary who reached for her rucksack, causing Molly to pull back, "Honestly, Molly – it's Christmas – you're not supposed to be doing any work yet."

"Ok…I'll get the other one, then," she said running upstairs to fetch the smallest bag she had, which no matter how hard she tried didn't have room for the stake.

She'd been bringing it to school every day.

It wasn't like she expected an ambush during class, and even though she knew only one vampire who wandered about in broad daylight, she felt safe with its presence. Molly barely knew if she could in fact use it, since the idea of actually killing someone didn't please her. The thought of her parents having been purposefully taken away from her however did fuel the instinct. But she knew from listening in that it was most likely just one who was behind their deaths, but she couldn't mindlessly kill everyone in her path to find that_ one_ vampire.

She stepped away from the stake uneasily, feeling slightly better the second she saw Mrs Hudson's pleased smile, and knew that it was only her over-thinking things that made her feel like something was going to go wrong.

* * *

She was handed a fake ID with a photo of woman at the end of her twenties, who did not look at all like her, as the woman was Chinese. Mary frowned at her own ID, taking to look at sandy-haired Alex who looked rather pleased that he'd gotten them all ID's, "Nobody's going to believe this," said Mary disgruntled, as Alex frowned at her.

"We've obviously just got to flirt our way in," said Lucy, Alex's girlfriend with her luscious dark hair, and all-too obvious cleavage, making Molly look towards Mary who snorted.

"We'll probably end up at a dingy pub at this rate," said Mary.

"I worked really hard getting those," said Alex, offended, "If you want you can pay me twenty quid."

"Oh, shut it Alex – you got these for free anyway," said Tim smacking his friend on the arm causing him to flinch, "They're all expired – no one's going to believe I'm _thirty-two_ years old."

"We'll try - ok, so you lot can stop with your moaning," said Lucy annoyed, "He didn't have to find ones for you anyway."

All of them moved along the darkened streets, with Molly feeling widely out of her element, as they were trying to find the new club, "It should be around here," said Alex wandering ahead of them squinting into the distance.

"Brilliant," muttered Tim smoothing his hand over his hair, when his brown eyes landed on her. She turned her attention to Mary instead.

She knew Tim liked her, more than liked her, but every time she bothered to properly think of it – a pair of piercing blue eyes popped up in her head. Molly started to wonder, since she hadn't found one boy in a year below or above at all fit, unlike her usual silliness.

It was like she'd developed a fault, really – "Oh – do you hear that?" said Alex with his finger pointed upwards, as they all stared at him oddly.

Alex didn't seem deterred by it, promptly clapping his hands together, as he strode confidently ahead now – the level of chattering and music increasing with every step. In the end they were finally stationed outside a place with a large hot pink neon sign, "_The Crimson_ – that's original," said Mary eyeing Lucy, as the pair of them started to laugh.

Alex shook his head at them, "Right, ok – we'll just get in the queue-,"

"Let's just do it, then - it'll look more suspicious if we stand about talking about it," said Tim, and the girls followed after him, with Molly lingering slightly behind her eyes staring at the sign.

She only started to move when Mary was tugging at the sleeve of her arm, while Molly tried to convince herself it was nerves. They all placed themselves in the queue that moved at a much quicker rate than she supposed, overhearing whispered conversations, _"They're letting everyone in."_

Molly didn't feel any better when they were suddenly faced with the surly looking doorman who was standing in only a black t-shirt, undeterred by the cold, as he just jerked his thumb towards the door, while they all tried to scramble for their fake ID's. She was the only one who didn't bear an excited expression on her face, the second the door was opened, and the loud music swallowed up all form of coherent thought and speech.

The light inside the club was of a crimson shade of course, which suited the name – with the largest dance floor, and a long bar stuck to the right – red light flooding behind the bartenders. There were luckily loads of small round tables littered around the dance floor, which was a step down from the sitting areas. They hastily tore off to one unoccupied table, removing their coats, to compensate for the excruciating heat inside.

According to their ID's they were well above legal, though it didn't stop Lucy from giving a bit of a high-pitched squeal of joy, as she laughed, "We bloody got in!"

"I honestly can't believe it, shit – I'm buying drinks – anyone want some?" said Alex loudly pointing at them – with Lucy – Tim – Mary nodding, everyone except her. "Molly – come on – _one_ drink-," he said to her, before wagging his brows cheekily at Tim who turned red, though it might have been a trick of the light.

"Could I have a coke?" she said speaking over the music.

"A coke with rum it is!" said Alex running off to the bar, before she'd gotten the chance to stop him sitting down in a huff on her chair.

"It'll be alright, Molly," said Mary whose head was bouncing in time with the music, as Tim sat on the other side of her.

Alex returned with the drinks quickly after that, slamming the obnoxiously tiny glasses on the table, "5 pounds, I could have sodding made this one myself – I almost bought you the coke," said Alex annoyed sliding the glass over to Molly, who thanked him by taking a large sip of her straw, "I'm getting a pint –_ you_ lot pay the next round."

"You should try to enjoy that," said Tim with a laugh, as she'd almost emptied half of her glass.

What Tim didn't know was that for her it was ordinary coke. Alcohol didn't have the same effect on her according to Mycroft ("People do feel inclined to speak with you if they assume you are inebriated however, so use it to your advantage"), but she didn't feel like announcing that. She just pulled the straw from her mouth giving him a sheepish expression in return. She hadn't wanted Alex to waste his pounds since she couldn't get pissed anyway.

"We're really in a posh club though – look at them," said Lucy who was eying the people dancing, as she held onto her fruity drink that was bigger than theirs, "I don't see - ok, I see some – not good looking ones, but the lot of them are-,"

A man appeared by their table, his dark tousled hair falling into his face, as he silently gestured his head to the dance floor. Lucy stared at him gobsmacked for a second mouthing the words – _me _– until he more or less pulled her giggling onto the dance floor, "She's not wrong," said Mary, "Oh God – Alex won't like this."

"I'm not planning on telling him," said Tim, "It's only a dance after all." The words had barely left his mouth when they saw Lucy getting into a far more intimate dance than required of the song that was playing. Her body was rather close to the attractive man guiding her expertly on the floor, and the three of them stared at Alex who returned with his pint looking relieved.

"Sorry bit of queue - I think the bartenders on something – his eyes were rather shifty," he said putting down his pint, "What?" he snapped at them.

Mary avoided his eyes; while Molly felt her eyes turn towards Lucy who was snogging the man on the dance floor, "Mate – err - Lucy's sort of – well," said Tim clearing his voice, as he gestured towards the dance floor.

Alex gaped at the sight, "What the bloody hell?" he said.

"He just asked her for – a dance," said Mary hesitantly, but it was too late, as Alex moved swiftly pushing people out of his way.

Tim groaned loudly, a hand covering his face, for he clearly didn't want to watch Alex make an arse of himself while the girls stared in abject horror. The second Alex was about to poke the bloke on his shoulder however, a girl in a tight-fitting black dressed appeared at his side, her hands on his shoulder, as she whispered something into his ear. Suddenly it seemed that Alex didn't care about his girlfriend at all, as he was dancing with this girl instead, "What – just like that?" said Mary taken aback, "Honestly, doesn't she know he's just 17?"

"Must be the drugs," said Tim looking suspiciously into his own pint for a second making Mary laugh.

Molly, whose uneasy feelings did not waver since getting in the club, started to feel that she wasn't alone in her worry, as _he _seemed to be worried too. She could feel the anxiety build slowly in her stomach, while she tried to search the dance floor, taking in the curious thing that Lucy observed. There were a fair share of people there, some who were near her age, all having gotten in, and then there were those who looked older, but seemed quite keen on the younger lot. Everyone was paired up with people who seemed far too attractive for them, their looks sort of angelic even, "We should dance," said Mary all of a sudden disturbing her thoughts.

"I – I – I think I'll sit," said Molly who was still staring.

"Ok – well – I'm getting out there," said Mary standing up tugging her jumper down, as she looked at Tim, "You want to dance?"

"It's not – err – I think I'll just sit here, and watch over the drinks with Molly," he said in one breath, causing Mary to give her a look.

Her friend soon disappeared off to the dance floor, giving them an awkward wave, as she stood alone for a second, until a blonde-haired man approached her. Molly's attentions were soon shifted, as Tim seemed to be moving his chair closer to hers.

Her eyes turned to him briefly, before she turned back to keep an eye on Mary and her dance-partner, "So – Molly – you're not one for going out – how come you wanted to come?"

"I just…thought it'd be fun," she said not looking at him, as she saw Mary was chatting with the man pointing towards them. It was apparent that she wanted to take him with her to the table.

"Right, well – you don't exactly look like you're having fun," said Tim.

Molly opened her mouth to answer, though she became distracted when Mary stopped moving on the dance floor. Her friend was looking rather upset, especially when the man who danced with her took hold of her arm, talking to her. It was enough to make Molly half-sit up in her seat, intending to rescue her friend, but – the man's eyes flashed a deep red keeping her friend in place.

"Oh God," said Molly – the nerves slowly building themselves up in her stomach, worsening by the second, as she saw the other people on the dance floor; they were all in a trance-like state. None of them were dancing with the music at all, their movements slow, and their faces vacant, except that of their partner who seemed delighted.

"Molly is everything, alright?" asked Tim who looked at her bewildered.

She hoped it was all right, but she knew it wasn't. This was why she hadn't wanted to go, like she'd known of it to begin with. She scrambled for her bag, but she knew the familiar touch of wood wasn't there, "Molly?" Tim said, his voice sounding distant, as she felt more and more distressed.

Molly felt a sudden ache in her head – it was rage – _he_ was very angry, and she felt the words pour out of her lips, feeling slightly faint_, "The crimson,"_ she said.

The sprinklers in the ceiling were suddenly turned on, but it was not water that gushed down into the parted lips of the participants below on the dance floor.

It was blood.


	4. 1990 Pt 2

**A/N: **Aussiemaelstrom, thank you for being a fabulous beta! She's patient, as this chapter got away from me, but here it is for you to read.

* * *

_And I heard your voice as clear as day_

_And you told me I should concentrate_

_It was all so strange_

_And so surreal_

_That a ghost should be so practical_

_Only if for a night_

_**1990 PT2**_

White layers caked the streets now, the snow tumbling down on the city below with a glacial ferocity, unlike the city's usual melancholy gleam during wintertime. The streets were barren, emptied out, though the occasional shout from a youth would echo in the dark cold.

It was steps that thrust the snow aside, bags rattling loudly with un-opened bottles of lager that made noise, until those sounds were gone.

A police car interrupted the white scenery, its blue lights shining against the grim brimstones before flickering shut. The car skidded to a halt between two buildings, surveying the idle street, its engine turned off, leaving the wind to howl soundly.

Inside the car a young sergeant sat.

His hat was still perched on top of his head, though he quickly stripped it off and tended to his dark hair that clung to his sweaty forehead. Beside him a dark-skinned officer sat with a coffee cup pressed against his lips to hide his amusement, while the younger stared eagerly out of the car window.

With poorly disguised excitement Sergeant Greg Lestrade beheld the streets, which he had hoped would be riddled with people, considering their _stakeout_, but they were the opposite of that, "Are we going to keep an eye out on_ kids_ all night?" he said leaning back in his seat disgruntled.

Greg had hoped he wouldn't be sitting on his arse all night, because keeping an eye out on youths was tiring work, more mentally than physically. The worst things that kids did were either taking a slash against a wall while pissed, or causing a brawl in a pub. Then they'd have to calm the lot of them, while possibly getting a bottle knocked on their heads because of some prick posh kid with a large mouth, or write them a ticket for indecent public behaviour. Try writing a ticket for a ponce in the middle of the night, sprinting off with his trousers half-down his knees.

At least it wasn't a domestic.

He was sick of them, sick of breaking another tired-looking woman who smelt of stale cigarettes from her cheating spouse ("Fucking some cunt, ain't he? The fucking wanker, I'm gonna fucking kill 'im!"). It made him especially fond of his girlfriend, which he suspected she liked quite a bit. Despite that, at least it wasn't tending to old ladies who'd be off their heads about their foreign neighbours nicking their things, when those things would simply be misplaced in a cupboard ("I suspect it's that Turk – he's always sneaking about.")

He'd been on the job for about three months, and he already felt bloody tired. It just wasn't what he thought it would be like, though he knew what they did was good, and in fact rather helpful, it still didn't feel right. Greg knew he'd have to work his way to the top, after all, it was better than getting a desk-job handed to him like his dad wanted him to do ("I don't think you'd stomach proper police-work, Greg").

Sergeant Donovan, much more senior than him, and with a distinctive deep voice said, "They're predicting the lights will go off tonight – like two weeks ago – so we're here in case of rioting."

Donovan was older than him, wearier too, but he enjoyed every bit of their work, and managed to smooth over any odd wrinkle in any circumstance ("It's just seniority, that's all. You'll get the hang of it.").

"Not exactly any posh shops around though," said Greg pointedly, not exactly familiar with the street itself, but it was terribly quiet compared to the central places.

He suspected his father had a hand in it. When the lights had gone off earlier that week it had been panic in the streets of London (obviously he should stop listening to the Smiths), Greg crossed his arms waiting patiently for Donovan's reply.

The policeman only shook his head chuckling, "I know it might be difficult for you Greg, but, if they tell us to take a street for the night, we'll do it. Anyway, that's what usually happens on Friday nights – pissed kids, not glamorous murders."

"I just thought it be a bit –_ more_ – really."

"What do you expect? It's Christmas. Most of them are indoors. When you're around my age you'll be happy sitting in the car instead of having to tackle some drunk kid to the ground."

"We're not even going to – go – out, then?" he said gesturing towards the snow, "OK – I see your point," letting his hand fall down grudgingly, half-grinning at Donovan.

"If you want a walk - then go outside - enjoy the blissful cold on your bollocks, but you'll be running straight back in here again," said Donovan emptying his cup.

"Right…" said Greg as his eyes darted around to view the street, "I just thought we'd be in a busier street."

Donovan let out a breath, "I know it might not look like it, considering how empty it's right now, but this is one of the worst areas. It's the quiet ones you've got to watch for – if you're in a crowded street, people act out because one knob head is shouting, but here… someone wants to get away with something. I don't let my Sally wander around in the night, especially not here. There's enough dodgy clubs, and enough blokes who think just because it's quiet nobody will be watching. We're here to put the idiots off."

He agreed of course, it was difficult not to, despite awkwardly shifting in his seat over the fact that he'd been wanting something bad to happen, just so he wouldn't be bored.

"We're here to prevent, not to stop," said Donovan finally, "It might be a while before you learn that properly. It's not all murder, you know. We're not all going to end up on the cover of a paper looked up to as a hero – they'll most likely be taking the piss most of the time, which they do. Just try to do good, it's all that matters in the end."

Greg raised a brow, "That's a bit more high-brow than I expected – you certain you didn't pick the wrong job? You could have been a philosopher."

"I read," said Donovan darkly, "Anyway, you'll stop being an idiot after some years."

"Thanks," said Greg with a hollow laugh. "But…you'll probably catch the big fish some day – with a dad like yours."

Greg turned round from Donovan giving a breath, "I'm not expecting a high-class job."

"No, I know. You didn't take the one your dad offered after all, and that says more about you than you know."

"What does it say then?"

"That you're an idiot," said Donovan putting aside his now empty coffee cup on the dash. The radio in the car was very quiet, with the odd word once in a while, but nothing else. The pair of them settled into the silence for a bit.

"I just wanted to start from scratch," said Greg, stifled by the silence.

"It's an odd move, but I respect that – I know a lot of blokes up top who have never been out on the streets. It would help if one of them actually didn't have his head up his arse for once."

"You calling my dad an arse?" said Greg with a laugh.

"A bit – yeah – he's a bit of a -," Donovan started, though something caught the corner of Greg's eye. He turned his head briefly to the front, soon taken aback by what was in the street.

There was a young man.

He was wearing only a t-shirt in the freezing cold, one that was caked with blood, as he was leaning on his knees. The young man seemed rather out of breath, apparently having just stopped, and staring wide-eyed at their car. He straightened up, mouthing something at them, looking close to deranged, though his eyes raked over to the right all of a sudden.

Greg opened the car-door, one leg out, as he wondered what was going on, but the boy's head turned to the right again. He paled at the sight of something, taking to sprint off at top-speed.

"What the-," but the words were barely out of his mouth, when he saw why the boy was running. From the right an older man appeared, without any blood on his leatherjacket, obviously running after the boy.

"Bloody hell," said Donovan who immediately started the car-engine.

Stepping out of the car, Greg said, "I'll go on foot, I'm not sure we'll catch him with this," he said, slamming the car door behind him, before he followed their trail.

* * *

The snow was coming down in buckets, though he could see the dark shapes ahead of him, as blood rushed through his head. His heart was pounding madly and he regretted for even wishing for anything exciting. This was the usual, another angry skinhead wanting to rip some posh kids head off, and obviously by the blood on the boy's shirt he'd managed to cause him some damage.

Greg was surprised by the sounds of swearing behind him, briefly turning round to see Donovan running after him with his long legs, keeping up decently for a man his age.

The boy skidded on the next corner, almost loosing his footing and giving a cry, before he turned in to another street.

That was his mistake.

Unlike Greg, the kid didn't know that this was a dead-end, though he was glad the chase was over as he and Donovan followed them into the much darker alley. Only a few streetlights worked here, which was probably why the kid got confused and thought he'd gotten lucky. The boy was now clamouring at the brick wall at the end, desperately trying to grab at it but only ended up falling flat on his arse.

He whimpered loudly, as Greg heard the distinct sound of something snapping. His pursuer, however, was taking slow steps towards the wall, edging closer to the boy – "Police! Stop!" Greg said holding a hand out, slightly breathless, blinking against the snow.

He brought out his baton as a caution, seeing the skinhead had stopped in his stride, and felt a bit eased by that. Except that the man didn't turn around, instead he only kept his fists clenched at his sides. The man was large, broad shouldered, with a thick neck that suited him, and his pristine leatherjacket. He looked like someone who'd break your nose easily if he'd get a throw in, and Greg was all-too familiar with his type.

Donovan was keeping quiet behind him, obviously trying to let him steer this one on his own, "Sir – if you'll just step over here – we'll have a little chat, and we'll work this out, ok?" he said with a calm voice. Screaming at the man would only encourage him to act out, that he knew at least, so he tried to keep his tone even.

He didn't reply, causing Greg's shoulders to hunch a bit in annoyance, though he felt sudden unease as the man cracked the knuckles of his large hands instead. He was used to this kind of behaviour, people hating police – the establishment – 'the man' – he half-way expected some writing on the back of the man's leatherjacket, but it was blank. Yet there was something really wrong with this, and he didn't know why he felt like that, but for once he was afraid.

He blamed Donovan for letting him go at it alone, since obviously now was not the time to let him learn, but with an uneasy glance at Donovan he tried again, "Sir – please – step away from the boy, or we will have to use force," he said with a much sterner voice.

Now the man's response was to turn his head slowly to the left – a loud crack followed – then to the right – another crack. Greg's confidence fell, looking to Donovan who raised his brows at him in return. He was as bewildered as he was.

The boy at the front was clutching at the wall, desperately, his knee given out from the fall. His eyes were set on his pursuer, wide and scared, "Please – just – let me go," he said, though the skinhead didn't make a remark.

He barely even moved an inch, standing his ground, and Greg almost felt like grabbing the man's arm now.

"Please," repeated the boy, though the skinhead's continued silence made him stifle a sob, as he hid behind his hands.

This wasn't some smug city boy; this was just a kid who'd gotten into some serious trouble, and Greg felt his own ire kick up a notch. "Sir?" he said letting his anger be known as he gripped firmly at his baton, while Donovan slid his one out as well.

They were at least two, he thought as he looked at Donovan who was the tallest of the pair of them. He might be older than him, but he was a heavyset man; what he lacked in speed – he made up in strength, "Sir – move towards the wall to your right, and put your hands on the wall – or else we will force you there," said Donovan with knitted brows.

The sheer command in his voice settled Greg a bit, though the skinhead didn't budge, but he finally spoke, "_Food_."

He stopped in his track, almost loosing the grip on his baton, as he felt himself taking a step back. Even Donovan seemed frightened, the older man meeting his eyes with a bewildered look on his face, as Greg felt the hairs on his neck stand on end, "Well – we'll buy you a meal, then – if he's nicked your food. It'll be alright," he said carefully, the words spilling out before he could stop them, but Donovan didn't begrudge him those.

"_Food_,"– a phrase so familiar – but those words coming out from that man's lips…It was different, seeming almost not human, as though he'd said something dark.

Greg's stomach twisted into knots, beads of sweat appearing on his forehead, as he felt like he could throw up. It was like he'd woken up wrong, like those words weren't being said aloud– like they were in his mind, crawling into the dark corners, and expelling inside his head, tearing at his brain. The sheer thought felt odd, everything about it felt off, and Greg wanted nothing more than to turn around and leave. His body almost made him do so, his steps going backwards.

Donovan broke through the fear, "He's obviously off his head," he said looking to him, but his brown eyes looked like he felt the same.

They both wanted to leave – but they were supposed to sort this out, and Greg almost found that he couldn't, "Right – ok – we'll get you food," said Donovan who somehow managed to edge closer to the man's back, holding his baton steady in his hand, as he jerked his head towards Greg.

His every instinct told him to run, to hide, to do anything but move closer, and it was then the skinhead finally turned to face them. He looked down at them with dead eyes, which somehow seemed red, while his mouth broke out in a wide smile.

At any other time he'd feel calmed by this, since any other man would obviously be pissed if he was smiling the way this man was, but this was no ordinary man. His face was pale, and his teeth – were _pointed_ - every single one of them sharp and yellowed.

He gaped at him, seeing Donovan leap backwards in shock, as Greg felt bile crawl up his throat.

The skinhead dropped the grin, allowing his words to fill the air, undeterred by the snow, "I'm a bit peckish now, copper – and you look more than a twig," he said with blazing red eyes, it was not a trick of the light, "Wouldn't you like that? Fill me right up, you two would. _Come let's be friends."_

His arms stretched out to the sides, greeting them, welcoming them, as his voice did not bring fear now, "_I will only be your friend."_

Greg felt suddenly lighter, the unease drifting off his shoulders, as a sense of calm washed over him, filling him, heating him up where the cold nipped at his body. He felt the baton slip from his hand, allowing it to clatter to the ground, as his mind was carefree.

He'd been such an idiot.

He couldn't understand why he'd been so worried.

This man was no threat.

There was kindness in his eyes, in his smile, features that had seconds ago repulsed him were lovelier than he'd ever seen, and he saw the friendly hand that beckoned him forwards. He would grasp that hand, and hold it for comfort.

He was annoyed when Donovan got there first, feeling frustration, as his friend was occupied. His friend was now grabbing Donovan by the shoulders. There was nothing to fear here, it was only a mix-up after all, and he could see the young boy by the wall agreeing with him. His face was less peaky, and he seemed to be trying to drag himself forward.

No, Greg would be next to shake his friends hand.

_Don't. _

It was a thought he did not fully understand, disturbing the docile turns of his mind, and he found himself stilling in his actions.

_Run. _

For a second it almost sounded like himself, but that sounded wrong. He didn't have anything to worry about, for it was evident that his friend only wanted to give Donovan a much-deserved hug.

_Go. _

He started to laugh, as the concept of running was absolutely ridiculous. He didn't have any reason to run, even Donovan was laughing with him, and even the boy was. The three of them were laughing, amidst the snow with their friend, and he felt nothing but bliss.

_It's a lie. _

Greg's laughter turned short, though his grin did not fade, but his cheeks hurt from the action. The small voice in his head turned larger, louder, and stronger – giving him a headache. He'd almost managed to shake it away, starting to laugh once more, when blood sprayed his face.

He blinked, blood and snow cluttering up his sight, as he tried to rub it away, "Oh, that's-," he said mystified by the appearance, though not scared, nor shocked.

Then it came, hurtling forwards out of nowhere, disturbing the peace like a stab at his heart; a bloodcurdling scream.

As if someone had turned on the lights he saw what was going on.

He saw the blood on the snow.

He saw Donovan.

Donovan's mouth was gaping, his eyes unblinking, as he lay on his back on the ground. Perched on top of him was the skinhead.

Greg could not see what was going on, only hear the sound of bones being crunched, a sickening sound of liquids and entrails, as the man covered Donovan with his frame.

He drew in a shaky breath, finding his footing, as he couldn't find his voice. He felt like shouting, but he didn't have the capacity to do so. But he saw it, he saw the man bite into Donovan's throat, tearing flesh, breaking into bone, and chewing soundly.

Donovan wasn't shouting, neither was his body giving any fight, and Greg knew, he knew he was dead, but he didn't want to believe it. This wasn't real – Donovan wasn't being _eaten._ No man could just eat another, that's not how the world worked, that's not how his world worked – that option was not real, that belonged anywhere else but here.

Donovan had been fine, he'd been on his feet just seconds ago, and now he was dead? "Jesus," Greg said, his eyes burning up.

He couldn't believe it, couldn't begin to comprehend what the fuck was going on as the skinhead finally stood up.

When Greg's eyes went to Donovan he knew the man was gone. He was replaced by flesh, by nerves, and by blood. Nothing of his friend was left, the man was gone, and Greg felt himself visibly shake at the sight.

He tried to pull himself together, battling with his mind, as he knew he was being stared at - two glowing red eyes following his every movement. Whoever this man was, _whatever _he was, he'd have to try to stop him - he'd_ have_ to stop him - or die trying.

Blood was dripping from the skinheads chin, but he didn't seem bothered. He was too busy licking every scrap of blood from his bloodied fangs, showing off his long sharp tongue, as he raised his brows at Greg, "Now – are you going to run?" he said pointing behind him.

He was giving him an option, an option that almost tempted him, but sense – responsibility – to the young man who seemed to have returned to his own senses grew in his chest.

"No," he said defiantly, glad that no voice in his head was telling him off for staying this time around, and that he wasn't turned into some grinning idiot. He almost wished that would return, since the anger, the fear was starting to take its toll.

"I like 'em better when they run," said the skinhead like he'd offended him.

Greg genuinely felt like laughing, but he couldn't get it out. He caught the eyes of the boy that were fixed on Donovan on the ground, "Run," he said, but the boy only looked at him. He tried, but his leg wouldn't let him. The kid would never have a chance if he didn't do something, but he knew – that unlike him – Donovan did pack a gun.

"You're telling_ him_ – to run? Fat lot that'll do for him copper – I'll have him in no time, you're just a snack in-between," said the skinhead who let out a barking laugh.

The baton was by his feet, and the gun was on Donovan's mangled body; neither was at hand. And neither could be retrieved without bending down giving the man an advantage, and he already had several.

His mind raced for an answer, mouth turning dry, as he felt adrenaline surge inside of him. Greg still had his wits about him, still had his mind, and so he ran towards the man throwing his right hand forwards to his face. The man caught it in his hand effortlessly, and Greg tried to wrench it loose, but nails dug into his skin.

They felt like sharp blades, puncturing the skin of his hand, drawing blood, as his knees buckled under him. Looking up at the deadened red eyes, he tried to wrestle himself out of the man's claws, but that only made it worse. Bones broke underneath the man's grip, and Greg's moan became a scream, "_You don't look afraid – you should be_," said the man with the unpleasant voice again, the voice that made him want to run, to hide at the edge of the world.

He could feel the hand tugging him upwards, he saw the fangs bearing down upon him, and he tried to say something to the boy. Greg wanted him to go, he'd have enough time, time he obviously didn't have anymore of…and he knew this would be his last…

"Original," said a voice.

He didn't know who was more surprised, him or the skinhead who's sharp nails dug deeper into his hand. Blood was gushing down from where his nails stayed, running down to the ground, and Greg tried to turn around to the source of the voice. If he was lucky this was someone who could help – another policeman – anyone, at all. But could anyone stop this?

He doubted it.

"Who are you?" spat the man, releasing Greg's hand, causing him to pull his hand back to his chest.

He couldn't unfurl his hand at all, every ounce of strength in it gone, but at least he was out of the man's grip. He turned to where the newcomer approached them. A man was standing where yellowed light didn't fall, as a streetlight was broken overhead. Squinting at the figure, he tried to make out the man, but couldn't see him properly. Whoever it was started to move forward, his steps languid, until light flooded down on him.

His dark hair fluttered against the wind, snow settling itself in his curls, as his deep crimson eyes shone at them, amused. He was the opposite of the skinhead, well dressed – well kept, and somehow at ease, despite the monstrous scene.

Greg's insides thrashed uncertainly, hoping the red eyes were a trick of the light, but it wasn't. A fact he found hard to admit to himself, though the throbbing pain in his hand confirmed it, seizing against his chest – this was real – all of it was.

"You're – you're supposed to be dead!" barked the skinhead, losing every single bit of the timbre that made Greg's skin crawl, now _he_ sounded frightened.

He didn't know whether to be happy or not, slowly crawling on the ground towards Donovan. He hoped he'd find some sign of life, a slow breath, and a pulse - anything, but he knew he wouldn't. Greg didn't have enough time or strength to fight off one man right now, or even two for that matter. He just hoped that Donovan had his gun on him…

"Am I now?" said the stranger with a grimace, seeming annoyed, as Greg found Donovan's gun.

He tried gripping it with his right, stifling a whimper at the attempt, switching to his un-broken hand, almost losing grip due to the blood.

With the last bit of strength in him, he got up on his feet staggering towards where the boy was leaning against the brick wall. He fell down besides him, unable to keep himself up, trying to save his energy.

Frantic whisperings hit his ear at that, "The club – there's – there's…" the boy said, clinging at the collar of his jacket, while Greg's eyes tore over the scene with the two _men._

Neither of them was speaking, staring only at each other in silence, allowing the snow to cover them, while it hid the remnants of blood on the ground. Finally the boy got the words out, while Greg's nerves grew, "They're – they're _vampires_."

He shook his head automatically, driven on by pure instinct, by logic, and all sense in the world. The kid was obviously drugged, so were these men, but he knew that wasn't true. He knew it by the sight of Donovan, by the throbbing in his hand, which would make the gun absolutely pointless to carry. He could barely hold it in his left; instead he tried to stretch his right hand over his leg shoving the pain aside.

He'd have to will his hand to be better.

"What's your name?" Greg said out of the corner of his mouth.

The boy looked startled at that, shook even, "T – T – Tim," he said with shattering teeth.

"Shut up Tim," he whispered with anger in his voice, as he kept his eyes on the scene.

If the men would talk he'd feel better, at least they'd be distracted enough, and maybe he and the kid could leave unscathed.

"Is it really you, though?" said the skinhead.

Greg tried to grip at Tim's shoulder, tried to pull him up with him, but his own knees gave under the idea. He'd have to wait, wait long enough, and maybe the pair would leave. It was another hopeful thought, pathetic at best, but the only thing he had right now.

"Yes," the other man enunciated heavily, leaning forward, rolling his eyes.

"Well, then, I've got no problem returning you back to your grave," said the skinhead with menace, dragging the sleeve of his leather-jacket over his chin.

The stranger didn't look scared, neither did he flinch or step away from the skinhead. "I'd like to see you try," he said smirking.

Tim was wheezing soundly besides him, "Oh God – _oh god_-," he said, and Greg felt like shoving him the hell away. He wanted the boy to run, but he seemed to have given up entirely.

Both men were sizing each other up again, though the skinhead was doing the same like he did with them, crackling his knuckles, then his neck, and probably throwing the stranger his wide-grin. There was no way this skinny bloke would manage to tackle him, however confident he seemed. This was a match the man would never manage, red eyes or not, but Greg had only blinked – when the skinhead fell to his knees with a loud yell.

"What?" he heard himself say, while Tim stiffened at his side.

Crying out, the man spat out blackened blood that spread thickly over the snowy ground. He keeled over not long after that with a loud thump, his cry of pain silenced – "Boring," said the stranger exhaling into the air.

Greg stared at the man gaping, wondering what the hell he'd just seen, as that couldn't have happened so quickly? But it had to, for in the man's gloved hand was a dark bloodied _heart._ It throbbed soundly with its dark veins poking out, until it to his astonishment slowly dissolved into ash. Where the rest of the skinhead's large body had fallen there was a scorch mark on the ground – dark and messy. He looked to where Donovan was, before his eyes flickered to the ash.

He'd ripped his heart out.

Greg couldn't believe it, as the stranger's crimson eyes turned to him and the boy. His expression was not that of hunger, but mild curiosity. Somehow that scared him more, and he found himself shaking, as he tried to hold the gun in his hand.

It was a struggle to keep the gun upwards, and he bit his teeth together, preparing for whatever fresh hell would be unleashed on him. He'd die saving the boy – he would without hesitation, but the stranger folded his hands behind his back. The man's red eyes went towards Donovan's body, until those red hues reverted to blue, and settled upon his own face.

He strode forwards, as Greg started to steer the nozzle of his gun towards the man, intending to shoot if he came any closer.

His hand was poised on the trigger, waiting and watching, as the man said, "Call for backup, sergeant."

Greg hadn't expected that, neither did he expect the man to walk away, his dark coat billowing after him. The sight of his back didn't ease him, though Greg found himself able to stand, like a weight had been lifted off his shoulders.

Holding the gun upright by pressing his left underneath it, he shouted, "Who the hell are you?" The man did not stop in his stride, nor did he turn, only disappearing off, as Greg lowered his gun in shock.

"Vampire," said Tim softly, and Greg did not find himself disagreeing this time.


End file.
